


Dysfunctional

by lettersinpetals



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Disorder, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, High School, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Non-Explicit Sex, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Panic Attacks, Soft Sakusa Kiyoomi, Teen Romance, Therapy, Underage Sex, story starts in high school and ends post-timeskip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26250040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettersinpetals/pseuds/lettersinpetals
Summary: Atsumu was a tornado he kept letting in — he comes, he destroys, and before Kiyoomi could even register the damage, he was out the door.--In which Sakusa Kiyoomi and Miya Atsumu’s love story starts in high school, but of course they make a complicated mess of it for years. Six, to be exact.(SakuAtsu ft. first kisses and first everything)
Relationships: Komori Motoya & Sakusa Kiyoomi, MSBY Black Jackals & Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Atsumu & MSBY Black Jackals, Miya Atsumu & Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 274
Kudos: 1896
Collections: SakuAtsu Fics, SakuAtsu Fics for Midterm Procrastination, haikyuu! content (but mostly sakuatsu angst and fluff for the 3am crying sessions), ~SakuAtsu~





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no explanations for this...I just thought a high school romance would be cute. And please, for the love of god, mind the tags.

**2012**

If one were to ask Sakusa Kiyoomi how his... _entanglement_ with Miya Atsumu started, he would blame the blonde hair.

But what really happened was this —

It started with eyes catching for just a second. Just one second. And that was all it took to change Sakusa Kiyoomi’s life.

But of course, he didn’t know that then.

He was almost at the Ajinomoto National Training Center, walking with his hands in his pocket, mask firmly in place. He didn’t know what compelled him to turn his head to the side, but he did.

His gaze met lazy brown eyes and for a startled second, he paused in his tracks. Miya Atsumu had impulsively glanced up at him and stilled from where he was crouched down in front of a vending machine, grabbing a drink.

They looked away. Kiyoomi resumed walking, and Miya presumably collected his drink. Just a strange moment between strangers.

But as he walked, he thought, _When did his hair become blonde?_

He knew who he was, of course. Miya Atsumu, supposedly the best high school setter in Hyogo. Their team was a powerhouse, and faced Kiyoomi’s in the last Spring InterHigh Tournament in January. They managed to take a set, but Itachiyama eventually won. The two of them didn’t exactly interact, barely even paid attention to each other outside of the game.

The only thing that tipped Kiyoomi off about his identity was his fringe, flipped to the right. He had memorized that, watching the tapes of Inarizaki’s old matches. He had to keep in mind which twin had those lethal serves after all.

_But when did he become blonde?_

Shaking his head, he pushed all thoughts about Miya and the last InterHigh aside and went on his way. When he’d woken up that morning, he’d glared at the ceiling and thought, _Here we go again._

He should have known today was going to be different. He just had a feeling.

\--

They eventually crossed paths in training again, of course.

Kiyoomi didn’t pay attention to him at first. Being accepted to this camp was no joke. It meant they all had the potential to go beyond playing high school volleyball. They could go on to represent Japan as part of its youth team in international tournaments.

And one day, they could even go on to represent Japan in the Olympics. If he hasn’t lost his mind by then.

But that was still far off. For now, Kiyoomi was busy eyeing all his rivals. A lot of them were familiar. There was his cousin and teammate, Komori Motoya, whom he’d been studiously avoiding. And Kageyama Tobio from Karasuno, whom he briefly spoke to earlier, and subsequently snubbed. There was that short dude, Hoshiumi Kourai, who had the mean jumps.

And of course, Miya Atsumu. His thoughts lingered then let go.

After the first training session, Kiyoomi quickly stalked his way to the showers. He always preferred bathing first, before the others caught up. Thinking about the dirt and sweat and germs that a locker full of young men left on the walls and the floors was always dangerous business for him. He was now at a place where he could bear it, if he had to, but he obviously tried not to have to.

But whatever headway he gained was always rendered null, because after bathing, he had to deal with his goddamn hair. Why did he have to be born with curly hair? It was impossible to maintain. He hasn’t worked up the courage to get a haircut, but sternly told himself he should. It was too much effort to deal with this tangled mess.

So by the time he got to the mess hall, there was already a line for the food. He skipped putting on a mask, partly to challenge himself, and partly because he was going to eat anyway. He hovered at the end of the line, keeping distance from people.

And then Miya approached casually, pointedly ignoring Kiyoomi and keeping his eyes on the offerings of the cafeteria. A few times, their gazes flicked to each other then away. Finally, Miya settled behind Kiyoomi in line.

Kiyoomi became antsy, feeling Miya’s gaze boring into his back. He took a few steps forward as the line moved along, then suddenly turned in place and met half-lidded eyes yet again.

“Miya,” he greeted curtly.

“Sakusa,” the other man said.

For a moment they stared at each other, both unwilling to speak.

Then Sakusa finally said, “Is there a reason you’re staring at me.”

Miya shrugged a shoulder. “It’s just that I only ever see you without a mask when you’re playing. ‘S just weird in a casual setting.”

“Weird?” he demanded.

“Good weird,” Miya said, waving a hand. “Chill.”

Kiyoomi narrowed his eyes at him. Then he scoffed and turned his back, catching up with the line.

“Hey Sakusa-kun...man, that’s a mouthful — you realize this is the first conversation we ever had? Weird, huh, I already know so much about you.”

“You don’t know a thing about me.” _If you knew, you wouldn’t be talking to me._

“I know your exact spike point by now. That’s enough.”

Kiyoomi looked over his shoulder at him. If Miya was going to insist on holding a conversation with him, then he was going to ask what he wanted. “Why did you bleach your hair?”

Miya blinked at him. “Oh. Just trying something new. Also getting sick of people mistaking me for Samu.” Miya Osamu, his twin. Wing spiker.

It sounded valid to Kiyoomi. He faced forward again. He was next in line to be served.

“You like it?” Miya asked. It sounded like he was smirking.

“It’s the color of piss,” he said flatly. “Or mustard.”

“Ouch!” Miya laughed. “I did it myself. Probably should have had it done professionally, but I think it still looks good, regardless.”

It did, Kiyoomi finally admitted to himself reluctantly. The stupid hair caught his attention from the get-go, outside by the vending machine.

The idiot could probably pull off any look, he thought darkly. He was one of those people.

As he waited for his food to be served, he could feel Miya’s gaze studying the side of his face.

“You look different,” Miya said finally. “That’s why.”

_Do you mean dead? Thanks, it’s the meds._

Miya clarified, “Better.”

Kiyoomi looked at him sharply. He wanted to ask if he looked _not_ well at any point during the Nationals, but he didn’t want to hear the answer. He knew, of course. But nobody else should have been able to tell, except maybe his coach and his cousin. When his food was handed over by the server, he opted to just ignore Miya.

But he was not to be deterred. 

“Hey, Omi-kun…let’s be friends.”

“Don’t call me that,” Kiyoomi scowled.

“That’s not a no,” Miya sang.

“Why are you bothering me?”

“You’re the most interesting person here.”

“I’m really not.”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

Kiyoomi picked up his tray and glared at him. “Go away, Miya.” And he started walking away.

“It’s Atsumu,” the other boy called out to him. Kiyoomi didn’t look back.

\--

The sound of the ball hitting the opposite court was satisfying to Kiyoomi, the sting of his palm pleasant instead of burning. He was reminded again how much he loved playing volleyball. And he _missed_ it.

He was worried for a while, that these people would just _know_. That they’d be able to tell that he’s just been getting back in the game the past few months, after having to stop for a big portion of the year. But he was pleased with himself. He was getting back in shape.

Kageyama telling him that he’s been average compared to his reputation rankled like nothing else. But he couldn’t exactly snap at him and say that he was _trying_ , damn it.

Hoshiumi accusing him of hesitating and doubting his set made Kiyoomi want to step on his foot. But he was not raised to be rude. In fact, his mother was all about manners and cleanliness and “image.”

Sighing internally, he braced himself for a long week.

\--

The third morning of training camp, Kiyoomi’s peace was disrupted when a tray clattered to his table. He lifted his head just in time to catch Miya drop into the chair in front of him.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Kiyoomi said, staring at him.

“Good morning to you too! Just thought you were lonely.” Miya started fussing with his food.

“I am alone. By choice. I’m _not_ lonely.”

“Too late, I’m here now. Hey, how come you haven’t been sitting with your teammate?” Miya jerked a thumb behind him to show Komori sitting with Kageyama.

Kiyoomi stiffened. “He’s allowed to make friends.”

Miya studied his face, then he smiled cheerily. “Okay, then. But you are too, Omi-kun! Lucky for you, I’m here.”

“Lucky me,” he said flatly.

It was only when he finished his breakfast that he realized why it was a bad idea to have anyone sitting near him.

His pills.

Should he go to the bathroom? He couldn’t bear the thought of taking them there. Did he have time to go back to his room and take it there? Could he risk being late?

Maybe he could toss them in his mouth when Miya wasn’t looking?

He forcefully put a stop to his spiraling thoughts, and was briefly proud when he managed to calm himself down. He thought of what his therapist said, that this didn’t have to be debilitating, that he had nothing to be ashamed of.

Besides, maybe this will successfully scare Miya away.

As casually as he could manage, he slipped the tiny pill holder from his jacket pocket and emptied the contents onto the palm of his hand. Sertraline. Alprazolam. Only two pills, instead of the initial five. But increased dosage, as of October.

Ignoring the way Miya paused in his movements, he tossed them back and followed it with a gulp from his bottle of water.

Having nowhere else to look without looking guilty, he met Miya’s gaze head on.

“Still want to be friends?” he challenged.

Miya blinked at him. “Of course.”

Kiyoomi shook his head, sighing. What’s with this idiot?

“So what’s the story there, huh? That the germ thing?”

“Germ thing,” he repeated drily. “Sure. OCD, to be technical. With a little bit of hypochondriasis.” There was some relief finally saying it out loud, for the first time in eleven months.

 _Nothing to be ashamed of_ , he insisted to himself. Besides, Miya is a nobody in his life.

Technically, he had nobody _in_ his life.

Miya hummed. He finished eating and didn’t ask anymore questions.

Kiyoomi relaxed, feeling oddly grateful.

Maybe he wasn’t that bad.

\--

“Hey.”

Kiyoomi stopped in his tracks.

“Er, I saw you eating with Miya. This morning and again tonight.”

Steeling himself, he turned to face his cousin, who had called out to him just as he was escaping to his room for the night.

“And?”

Komori looked a little hurt. “So how come you’d sit with him, but wouldn’t even look at me?”

“Because he didn’t have me sent to a mental facility.”

Komori shut his eyes. “Sakusa…”

Kiyoomi whirled around and walked away.

“What else was I supposed to do?” Komori asked in a defeated tone from behind him.

He picked up his pace and didn’t look back.

\--

He massaged hand lotion into dry, abused hands. Thinking.

Logically, he knew he shouldn’t blame Komori. Logically, he knew that what Komori witnessed was so horrifying for him that he didn’t know what else to do other than to call his parents and rush him to the emergency room. In fact, Komori probably _saved_ him. But no amount of logic could ease the knowledge that the other boy had seen him at his worst.

Snapping the bottle of lotion closed and setting it aside, Kiyoomi finally settled into bed and let his mind rest.


	2. Chapter 2

He didn’t know what possessed him to follow the sound of Miya’s laughter. Curiosity?

He’d just finished his nighttime routine and was headed to his room when he heard it echoing down the hallway. It was loud, uninhibited — and most importantly, alone.

He ended up at the fire exit, the door having been left slightly open. He pushed at it, shivering at the blast of cold night air, and gazed skeptically down at Miya. “What are you _doing_?”

Miya turned and looked up at him from where he was lounging on the stairs. He straightened, scrambling to tug off the fluffy headband on his head. “Omi-kun! Just video calling Samu.” He adjusted his grip on his phone to show his gray-haired twin, who was blinking at Sakusa. “Wanna come sit? I was just telling him about Kageyama-kun.”

He hesitated. He wasn’t sure what to think about Miya. The way he was provoking Kageyama earlier in the day made Kiyoomi raise a brow, but for all that he was pushy and nosy, he hadn’t tried to force answers out of Kiyoomi.

And it wasn’t like Kiyoomi had anything better to do, except stare at the ceiling and second-guess all of his decisions.

“I need to get a jacket first,” he said, eyeing the steel staircase. Just how thick was Miya’s skin that he could stand this cold? He was only wearing a hoodie.

“Sure, but come back, alright?”

Kiyoomi ended up donning a hoodie of his own and thick socks. He also dragged with him a comforter.

Miya laughed when he saw him. “Seriously, the cold is not that bad.”

“I don’t know what the hell your thick skin is made of, but I am telling you that it’s freezing. It’s _December_. What’s wrong with you?”

Still, he settled on the stair beside Miya, making sure to sit on the comforter, before wrapping it around himself like a cocoon. He relaxed. He did like the cold, so long as he was cozy.

“Show me him, I wanna see,” the voice on Miya’s phone blared.

Miya shoved the phone near his face. “Samu, meet Omi-kun, Omi-kun, meet Samu.”

Frowning, Kiyoomi moved his head back so he could see. “Nice to meet you,” he said politely, if a little doubtfully.

The other Miya twin tilted his head at him. “Ah, yes, the one with the nasty spikes. The spinny ones.”

Kiyoomi shrugged. “And you’re the other Miya twin. The quieter one.”

He laughed. “It’s Osamu. Seriously, just call us by our first names, it’s less confusing that way.”

“Fine.”

He gazed out into the quiet night sky, half-listening to Miya — no, _Atsumu_ , bicker with his twin, and wondered what he was doing there. He wasn’t much for impulsive decisions.

Still, it sparked a bit of something in him. Was this what being a normal teenager is like?

“So,” Atsumu said, and Kiyoomi realized he’d already hung up. “Didn’t actually think you’ll come back.”

Kiyoomi shrugged. “Nothing better to do.”

“What _do_ you do?”

He frowned. How does one answer that question? “What do _you_ do?”

“Well, aside from playing volleyball...I like going out, you know, arcades and stuff with Samu. Though our city is pretty small, nothing special in there, nothing compared to Tokyo. Still, my teammates and I like to hang out together. Or I’d just chill indoors and watch movies.”

Kiyoomi frowned harder. That all sounded very lively compared to his life. “I don’t like going out. If I’m not at school or playing volleyball, I’m alone at home. I do yoga. I go to therapy.” _A big portion of my life is dictated by my mental illness and I’m still trying to find balance_ , he didn’t say.

Atsumu hummed. “Any friends?”

“I have teammates.”

“Those aren’t friends. What about siblings?”

“Two, they’re much older. They have their own lives now. And before you ask, I have parents, but we’re not close.”

Atsumu turned his head and studied him intently. “You’re slowly starting to make sense to me, Tokyo boy.”

“Good for you. I don’t make sense to me.”

Silence. Then Atsumu laughed and even he himself broke into a smile.

He wondered if he just made his first friend.

\--

They ended up always sitting together during meals. Atsumu was always following him, so he just stopped trying to shoo him away. It was exhausting, and it always led nowhere.

Besides, there was something refreshing about the irreverent way Atsumu treated his OCD. One time, he said, “Hey so that brain stuff of yours, that’s what makes you tap your chopsticks thrice on your bowl before eating?”

Kiyoomi had blinked at him, partly because he honestly didn’t realize he did that, and partly because _brain stuff_? He said, “Yes, my broken brain makes me do shit like that.”

“It doesn’t seem broken.”

“I overheard my doctor tell my parents it’s dysfunctional.”

“That just means that it functions differently, not wrongly.”

He’d been contemplating his words since then. Remembering the doctor quietly telling his parents _“...should not have been left undiagnosed this long...his actions were being enabled...mind does not know any better, simply how his brain works....it is dysfunctional.”_

Undiagnosed and untreated for years. Compulsive actions enabled, only getting worse with age. Anxiety wounding to an all-time high, stressor after stressor simulating him, until it exploded in their faces. The past eleven months he’d gone from feeling like an exposed nerve to feeling like a walking corpse. Undead. But still strangely vulnerable.

But Atsumu’s general attitude towards the whole thing helped Kiyoomi distance himself away from it, reminded him that it didn’t have to be a heavy cross to carry. It’s just a disorder. It’s just medication. It’s just brain stuff.

Atsumu was also _extremely_ irreverent to Kiyoomi. It always managed to shake him out of his haze, always made him react in irritation, in anger, in sheer disbelief at the _nerve of this guy_. How dare he poke Kiyoomi’s arm? No one else would dream of doing that.

Kiyoomi didn’t want to admit that he liked it. That maybe he’d needed it. His psychiatrist, Naoki-san, was always encouraging him to make friends, and he thought maybe this was why.

\--

They were out in the emergency stairwell again, sharing a blanket this time. Atsumu was trying to figure out what made Kiyoomi tick. Kiyoomi actually enjoyed their conversations. He never talked about this with anyone aside from Naoki-san before.

“So you can touch people?”

“I always could, I just didn’t like it, because then I’d have to wash my hands. Now I could without being driven crazy by my ‘intrusive thoughts.’ That’s what Naoki-san called it. I call them the bees, I don’t know why. But when they’re buzzing, I know it’s a bad day. The meds help in tamping down the compulsions, though.”

Atsumu hummed. “The exposure therapy helped then?”

“Yeah. Now, if a homeless person with dirty hands grabbed me out of nowhere, I’d be fine. Probably. I mean...theoretically.”

A touch on his hand jolted Kiyoomi. He swiveled his head to look at Atsumu, who was pointedly staring off into the dark night. “Is this fine then?”

 _Was_ it fine? There was no urge to go and do his compulsions, but his heart was pounding and he felt like he just ran a mile. He didn’t answer but he didn’t pull his hand away.

Seemingly emboldened, Atsumu lifted his hand and slowly laced their fingers together. He didn’t say anything.

They gazed down at the city side by side, holding hands in silence, for the rest of the night.

\--

On the last night of training camp, he met Atsumu in the emergency exit stairwell again. He’d started thinking of it as their spot.

He was greeted with a “Have you ever kissed anyone, Omi-Omi?”

His heart was flip-flopping in his chest again. He wasn’t used to feeling so alive outside of volleyball.

He sat down carefully on his comforter. He’d been having to ask for sheet changes from the facility. He hoped it wasn’t too much of a bother, and that they would never find out it’s being used in this way.

“No,” he finally said. “I don’t like people and people don’t like me.”

“But could you, do you think?”

“I...should. But...it’s not like this was part of my exposure therapy.”

Atsumu barked out a laugh. “I should hope not!” He quieted, gazing at Kiyoomi searchingly. “Wanna try?”

Kiyoomi was silent as he tried to pull his thoughts together and tried to think about this _rationally, for god’s sake._

But the simple answer was this: Yes. Yes, he did. He was 16. He’d never kissed anyone, and no one would probably ever want to kiss him.

And this was _Atsumu_. Good-looking Atsumu, with the unfortunate, sexy Kansai-ben accent. And the _hair_ …

“Just — don’t do anything weird,” he finally said.

Atsumu’s eyes widened like he didn’t even consider the possibility of him saying yes. “S-sure,” he spluttered. “You can do it, if that makes you feel better.”

Taking a deep breath, Kiyoomi leaned forward slowly, eyes locked with Atsumu’s brown ones. He learned from therapy that it was just best to go for it, because it always ended up _not_ as bad as he built it up in his head to be.

In one quick motion, he closed the gap and pressed his lips to Atsumu’s.

It was brief. It was chaste. But he was wrong. It was more than _not bad_. It felt like an electric shock ran down his spine.

For a moment they just stared at each other with wide eyes.

“So…” Atsumu began.

“It...wasn’t bad,” he replied.

Atsumu grinned. “You know, any other time and I’d be offended, but from you, I’ll take it.” Then his face was suddenly closer, expression melting into something more serious. Hungrier. “I’m going to do it again.”

This time, Atsumu kissed him and didn’t pull back. Kiyoomi stilled, and Atsumu’s hands were suddenly there, gripping his face.

“Breathe,” Atsumu murmured against his mouth.

Melting at the touch, Kiyoomi leaned further into Atsumu’s face, letting him press kiss after kiss against his lips. Without thought, he let his lips part in a sigh, and then —

It became a different animal altogether.

Atsumu’s mouth tasted like mint. Kiyoomi didn’t exactly know what he was doing, but when Atsumu’s lips started moving against his, he clumsily tried to keep up.

When his mind started spinning and he started feeling overstimulated, he gripped Atsumu’s shoulders and pushed him back a little. Their lips separated.

“Sorry,” Atsumu panted.

“It’s —" Kiyoomi tried to catch his breath to calm himself down. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” Atsumu teased.

“Good. It was good.” Definitely good for a first kiss.

Hell, it was more than he ever thought it’d be.

When they were calmer, Atsumu carefully placed his hands on Kiyoomi’s waist, tugging lightly. “Hey — come here, will you? I want to try something.”

Kiyoomi should have known then and there that he was in trouble, because of the way he didn’t question it. He just gave in.

He let Atsumu take his weight, let him wrap surprisingly strong arms around him. He knew he was touch-starved, but finally having it given to him like this...he thought it was even better than the kiss. He tucked his head into Atsumu’s neck and cherished the way Atsumu lifted the blanket to cover them.

They stayed like that for a while, avoiding the fact that come morning, Atsumu would return to Hyogo, and Kiyoomi would return to his big, suffocating, suburban home, hoping that his mind would be kind and not replay every second of this moment for the rest of his life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally get Omi's backstory. Mentions of blood, panic attacks, mental breakdowns coming up. You've been warned!

**2013**

They didn’t talk about it. Not when it was time for them to leave. Not even when they glimpsed each other at Nationals again a month later. This time Inarizaki lost to Karasuno, and Itachiyama lost to Inubushi. Kiyoomi, who was still struggling to reach his top form, was not that surprised or disappointed.

He _was_ disappointed that he wasn’t able to catch a moment alone with Atsumu, but he’d never admit it. All he got was a playful wink and a secret smile, before they parted ways. Again.

Kiyoomi wasn’t stupid. He knew it wasn’t going anywhere. It was only a kiss, and they’re from different worlds — they were separated not only by distance, but their very different personalities and upbringing, too. They barely knew each other, and he wasn’t sure they even _liked_ each other. Was it just an experiment? Was it just because of the moment?

Atsumu had added him on Facebook and followed all his social media accounts, but neither of them had sent a single message. It felt like a waiting game. For what, he didn’t know. The whole _thing_ with Atsumu was one big question mark. A blind spot he couldn’t stop trying to detect anyway.

Before he knew it, the school year was over. His 17th birthday came and went. It was spring now. He had two weeks before he needed to prepare for the next school year — his final year in high school. There was a point where he thought he wouldn’t make it, but here he was.

And then one afternoon, while he was curled up in bed, he received a message from Atsumu, asking for his Line.

Suddenly very awake, he gave it without a thought, and received a call not even a moment later.

“To what do I owe this pleasure,” he greeted, trying to sound unaffected.

“Omi-Omi! Guess who’s coming to Tokyo.”

“What? Really? Why?” His heart was racing now.

“Well,” Atsumu said. “Osamu and I had a fight and it brought up this discussion with our parents about what we wanted to do in our lives, and they don’t approve of my plans, so...anyway we all decided we’re gonna spend time with our aunt there in Tokyo. Explore the city and all. Samu’s actually interested — he’s gonna inquire at culinary schools here.”

Osamu? Culinary? “And what will you do?”

“Well, I was hoping we could hang out. So, you gonna give me your address or what?”

Kiyoomi hesitated. This was just asking for trouble. Miya Atsumu was _trouble_ — he knew that, hell, anyone could tell that. But he told himself Atsumu was his first friend, and friends are good. Naoki-san even said he “seemed like a nice boy, he might be good for you.” Obviously Kiyoomi never talked to him about the kiss.

“I’ll send the location to you,” he said, finally. “Let me know when you’re in Tokyo and when you’re planning to visit. You are not to show your face to my parents, I am simply not in the mood to deal with my mother’s scandalized nagging.”

At around midnight that very night, just as he shut off his lamp and snuggled under his comforter to sleep, his phone rang. He frowned at Atsumu’s name and answered, sighing. “What.”

“Just a totally random question that I’m asking for no reason, but is your room on the second floor, and which side of the house is it on? Is it the one with the balcony and the fire escape ladder on the side?”

Kiyoomi shot up in bed. Dangerously, he said, “Tell me you didn’t. Miya, I swear to god —” 

There was the sound of something small hitting Kiyoomi’s sliding doors. He jumped off the bed, detangling his limbs from his blanket, and slid it open. When he stepped out and peeked down, there in all his glory was Miya Atsumu. He was grinning up at him from the garden, like he wasn’t doing something that would give his parents a heart attack if they knew.

“What. Are. You. Doing?” he hissed as loudly as he dared. He wanted to jump down and strangle him and drag his limp body away from this place. What was he _thinking_?

Atsumu put a finger to his lips and gestured at the drop down ladder attached to the wall beside Kiyoomi’s balcony. It was obviously raised so that intruders can’t use it to get in, especially because their gate and fence was laughably low, even a child could jump it.

Kiyoomi sighed, closing his eyes, questioning his life decisions for just a second. Then he shuffled over the edge of his balcony and swung himself over to the ladder, descending until he could kick the bottom half of it down. The sound of it extending made him wince, and he was thankful that his room overlooked the garden, else the ladder hitting the ground would have made a horrible noise.

He climbed his way back to the balcony and watched as Atsumu ascended the steps. Once Atsumu was on his feet in front of him, he dragged him inside his room. Atsumu murmured a “Pardon for the intrusion,” which nearly made Kiyoomi laugh hysterically.

He shut the sliding doors and silently walked over to his main door. He listened for a moment then peeked out of it. Satisfied that his parents didn’t wake, he locked the door and glared at Atsumu.

“Want to explain why you’re here?”

“Nice to see you, too, Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi rubbed a hand over his face. “When you said you wanted to come over, I didn’t think _tonight_.”

“I wanted to surprise you!”

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed. “If my parents find you here, they will ship me off to the mental facility _again_. This is what my mother would call _appallingly rude_.”

Atsumu fought down a laugh, then approached Kiyoomi slowly, hands raised. “I can’t be in Tokyo and not come see you, Omi-Omi. Aren’t you the slightest bit glad to see me?” He looked at him hopefully.

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes and didn’t protest when Atsumu placed his hands on his waist. 

“Hi,” Atsumu said when he was close.

“Hi,” Kiyoomi said. Then he sighed at the feeling of Atsumu’s lips pressing against his.

When Atsumu pulled away, Kiyoomi chased his lips and wondered when kissing him started feeling like an addiction. Wondered why Atsumu was going around kissing him at all.

Atsumu started tugging him to the bed. “Can I sit?”

“No shoes, no coat.” Kiyoomi pursed his lips then sighed. “I’ll just change the sheets later.”

Atsumu let go of his hand and headed over to the chair by the sliding door, slipping off his coat and placing it there. Sitting on his bed, Kiyoomi studied Atsumu in his entirety, bathed in the moonlight. He was honestly, properly beautiful.

And then Atsumu was standing in front of him. “Sorry to come unannounced,” he murmured more sincerely. “Wasn’t thinking. I missed you.”

Kiyoomi wanted to ask, _What are we?_ But it strangely felt like defeat, so he didn’t.

Instead, he scooted up his bed and gestured for Atsumu to follow. They lay beside each other.

“What did you and Osamu fight about?” he asked quietly.

Conversation came easily. Atsumu told him that Osamu had already decided he was quitting volleyball after high school, and that he felt terribly betrayed. The ensuing fight had his family talking about their futures.

“...and I told them I didn’t want to go to college. I want to go straight to playing volleyball as a pro.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I mean, obviously if any of the teams would have me. But yeah, that’s Plan A. They didn’t like that of course. They hoped that we’d either stay in Amagasaki and find a decent job there, or maybe move to Tokyo and make lots of money here. It’s always Tokyo,” he muttered grumpily.

“People like to come here to chase their dreams,” Kiyoomi shrugged. “Or so it seems. I wouldn’t know about those things.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know if I have a dream.” That was a lie. “Well, obviously I’d like to play volleyball for as long as I could.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

Kiyoomi frowned at the ceiling. “Because that’s not the future my parents want for me. I’m to go to university, get a proper degree, and then follow in their footsteps.”

Atsumu shifted to look at him. He propped an elbow up and rested his cheek on his hand. “Are you just going to let them dictate your life?”

Something heavy was starting to press on Kiyoomi’s chest. “I don’t know how to stop letting them. Or how to talk to them. The last time we tried to talk about this, I...it eventually ended with me having a mental breakdown and being rushed to the hospital.”

Atsumu’s eyes were wide. “Would you tell me about it?”

“It’s a long story and it’s pretty fucked up.”

“I’m not about to go anywhere. Literally. The trains are about to close. Say, can I hide in your closet when your parents wake tomorrow morning?”

Kiyoomi snorted. “They don’t check on me. They’ll be up early and they’ll be gone for work before I even wake. It’s fine.” He sighed. “I can tell you, if you really want to know.” It was a hellish struggle piecing the whole story together with his therapist, but at this point, they’ve gone over everything many times, he thought he’d probably gotten desensitized. It was always therapeutic talking about it anyway, no matter how painful it was.

“Tell me.”

“Well.” Where should he even start? “The first thing you need to know is that my parents have always been pretty traditional and proper. And my mom has always been really big on cleanliness and order. Both of them were always busy, but when she’d come home at night, she’d always reprimand me for being messy and dirty from playing outside. And she’d get upset if I left toys around the house.”

Kiyoomi could still remember her saying, _“My goodness, that is not what a proper young man looks like, clean your face,”_ and _“Don’t touch anything unless you wash your hands,”_ and _“How could you just leave these puzzles and toys out here? Learn to clean up after yourself!”_

“I don’t know when it started but I started feeling anxious whenever it was time for them to come home. I was sure to always bathe, always clean. And I remember one time they forgot to leave food out for me and I ate leftovers that turned out to be rotten. Woke up in the middle of the night vomiting, it was painful as hell. And I somehow developed a phobia of getting sick.

“That’s as far back as I can remember... I never really thought about any of it growing up. It was simple for me: I wanted to be clean, I wanted things to be clean, and I wanted to not get sick. Everything I did was to ensure all that. I had routines. Clinically, they’re called rituals. But I didn’t know that. I didn’t know I had a _mental illness_ of all things, and that it was steadily getting worse.”

There were a lot of early memories that could explain how he’d come to be this, but after this long, it was impossible to pinpoint how it started. What was easy to pinpoint however, was when it all started to fall apart.

Volleyball had come to be the one thing Kiyoomi considered his. The court was where he felt most in control. Sure, there was pressure there, but he felt proud and fulfilled when he overcame it. It didn’t stress him out the way his parents did. And the better he got at it, the more accomplished he felt. He enjoyed putting in the effort, and getting rewarded with the sound of the ball slamming home.

As with everything in his life, he formed a routine for it. He needed to do things at a certain order so as to keep things going right. He had an unexplainable tendency to tap the heels of his rubber shoes against the floor of the court thrice, one after the other. He was sure to carefully stretch his wrists and his shoulders, always paranoid that he’d injure them.

“Then I started taking too long doing my pre-game rituals. One time before practice, I felt like my kneepads weren’t attached right. I kept taking it off then putting it back on. After the sixth time, Coach just — came over and did it himself. Told me to get on the court.”

“When was this?”

“Last, last year. After the qualifiers for Nationals. And then when that year was ending, my whole family was suddenly together again for the New Year celebrations.”

It shouldn’t have been a problem. They almost always spent that holiday together. But Kiyoomi had felt unsettled and ansty, especially with the way they were prodding him about school, and volleyball, and his future.

 _“It’s nice that you’ve become good at a sport,”_ his father commented one night during dinner. _“It’s good to remain active and healthy.”_

His mother, however, was frowning. _“A bit too much effort for a hobby though, isn’t it? Just make sure you don’t let your grades slip, alright? You still have to think about your future. You’re a sophomore now, you have to start seriously considering your options.”_

“They kept telling me to think about my future, telling me not to put too much effort on volleyball, because it was just a hobby. And something about that conversation just stressed me out. And it carried on over to the New Year...until the Nationals that January.

“I remember, right before playing you, I couldn’t stop tapping my heels on the floor. I used to only do it thrice for each foot, but that time I couldn’t stop. And even before the match, I already washed my hands many times, because I thought they were sweating because of the nerves. I thought Coach was going to push me onto the court. He looked quite concerned and frustrated.”

They had won. But the high from his victory was short-lived. His parents were less busy with work, their companies taking it easy while the country still basked in the arrival of the new year. They were home earlier and more often, and it kept setting Kiyoomi off.

When he got home and received no congratulations from his parents for his win, he wasn’t disappointed. They never attended a single game of his since he started playing when he was younger. But then they started discussing his future again, brushing over volleyball completely, and the feeling just got worse and worse.

“Then one time, my mother told me my hands were dry and peeling and that it was unsightly. That’s when I first noticed it. When I was washing the dishes that night, I felt like I was just making them dirtier with my hands. And I just kept washing them over and over. And since then, I started scrubbing my hands really hard, all the time, because they felt gross.

“And then...Komori came over and we practiced volleyball in their backyard. But when I hit the ball, my hand really hurt. And I noticed that the skin was cracked and there was blood and it mixed with the dirt gathered from the ball, and I just — it was unbearable. I ran to the bathroom and just started washing and scrubbing my hands.”

Kiyoomi was lost in thought now.

He remembered feeling dirty, disgusted — he was always good at taking care of himself, having no one else to do it for him all these years. He took pride in doing things properly, how could this have happened?

The sight of the blood mixing with all the dirt had turned his stomach. Why was there so much blood? He started washing his hands over and over. He couldn’t stop.

“I still don’t know how long I was there, or how many cycles I went through. And I don’t know when I started crying or why. I just couldn’t get clean. And I ruined my hands. I thought I couldn’t play volleyball again.”

He remembered with clarity the way Komori barged in, eyes widening at the sight of his face, skin turning pale as he looked at the sink, saying _“Oh my god, what have you done to yourself_ _—_ _”_

“Komori found me like that. I didn’t realize at the time but I was in the middle of a full blown panic attack. I couldn’t breathe, I was just crying and scratching at my hands. I don’t remember much about what happened next. Komori was shouting into the phone and dragging me to a cab, but I didn’t want to because I didn’t have a mask and I was convinced I was going to get sick and die. I was screaming and thrashing. He had to run back inside to get a pack.

“I was in the emergency room for hours. They bandaged my hands. Gave me something to ‘calm me down’ and gave me an oxygen mask because I said I couldn’t breathe. When my parents came I remember them saying things like ‘risk of self-harm,’ ‘top layers of skin peeled off,’ and ‘chaffing and scratches caused bleeding.’

“I was admitted overnight. And the next day they brought me to a psychiatric hospital as an emergency case. A mental breakdown apparently is cause enough for concern.”

“I mean...it really is, Omi-Omi.”

Kiyoomi smiled a little. “I was relieved to be diagnosed. I didn’t even realize I was suffering. I was happy to know I didn’t have to live my whole life that way. Naoki-san said it could’ve been genetics, it could've been my upbringing, my environment — perhaps all three. But what he was sure about was that it shouldn’t have gone undiagnosed and untreated for so long. It got worse with age. Later, when Naoki-san was talking to my parents outside, I listened. Heard him say my compulsions were enabled for years. That my mind didn’t know better because that’s just how it worked. Dysfunctional. My brain is literally fucked up.”

“That’s okay.”

“I had to stop playing volleyball for months.”

“That...is not okay.”

“I went to all my therapy sessions and followed all of Naoki-san’s instructions. I wanted to get better, healthier. I wanted to play again. I started conditioning myself again last August. Played a bit in October, during the qualifiers. But the stress of competition caused a lapse. Naoki-san upped my dosage again. I’ve been feeling pretty shitty. But nowhere near as bad as in the beginning.”

Kiyoomi sighed, exhausted. His therapy wasn't as easy as he made it sound to be. It started off rocky. At first he refused to talk at all. And then, when they started really digging through his memories, he was shocked to find himself crying.

 _“You know how humans like to cope to get rid of trauma,”_ Naoki had said soothingly. _“They want to clean it off. You have a lot of unaddressed trauma, but you were treating them the wrong way.”_

The moment he truly recognized and accepted that some of his urges were unreasonable and just a product of his brain chemicals, he felt liberated. That was when recovery started to happen. He learned to “reschedule” — for example, not washing his hands immediately after getting the urge to. Just for ten minutes, maybe fifteen, and eventually the gap would get longer. One day, maybe he wouldn’t do the compulsions at all. 

He learned his triggers, learned how to rank them, and were slowly exposed to them. It was torture. But after a few months, he could enter a public bathroom without feeling like he was entering his personal torture chamber.

After his lapse, he thought maybe he wouldn’t be able to play at a competitive level again. But Naoki-san said, _“You can still play and compete. You can still have a_ normal life _, with normal relationships. It would just require a bit more effort and a bit more compromises. And athletes are actually prone to OCD, and many of them are able to return to the sport. You just need to endure some maintenance and precautions, and that’s_ okay _.”_

Atsumu whispered, “How are you now?”

“Better than I’ve been in years,” he assured. He turned and finally looked at him. Lying there beside Atsumu, he thought he could even have a life instead of just existing. “Are you freaked out?”

“Nah.”

“I’m complicated,” Kiyoomi warned. He didn’t know where this was headed, but he felt it necessary to give a warning.

“I like complicated.”

How was Atsumu still not dissuaded? Did he like the challenge? What did he even want?

He didn’t know how to ask. He felt he’d already let himself be vulnerable enough.

Instead, he leaned forward and kissed Atsumu again, feeling a thrill at being able to do so. For over a year, he’d been working to reach this kind of headspace, where he could do what he wanted like a normal person, and there wouldn’t be the urge to cleanse himself.

The bees were silent tonight. He let Atsumu roll on top of him, and let his thoughts slip away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you just love vague relationships? Admit it, you've been in one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mildly explicit smut coming up. If you haven't read the tags, this is underage sex, people. Last chance to turn away.

Atsumu started coming over almost every single day for two weeks, but this time Kiyoomi was expecting him. Sometimes he’d visit during the day when Kiyoomi’s parents were out. Sometimes he had to help his aunt out or accompany Osamu somewhere, so he’d sneak into Kiyoomi’s room at night.

And he swept Kiyoomi off his feet. Hours were spent rolling around in bed, limbs intertwined, hands moving around curiously. He had never felt so eager, so alive, so _human_.

What they were doing was so, so wrong, and went against everything his mother drilled into his head. He relished in it. _I’m not your good and proper boy anymore, Mom._ All the rules, all the values have been thrown out the window, swept away by the single most irreverent boy he knew.

Miya Atsumu had crept into his life quietly, but now he was a perfect storm.

“This is what normal teenagers do, huh? Mess around?” Kiyoomi panted one night, straddling Atsumu’s hips. “I see it on television.”

“I mean, I guess? Why are you asking me? I’m only 17, do I look like I know what I’m doing?” Atsumu said, pupils dilated as he watched him.

Something about that emboldened Kiyoomi. They were both lost at sea.

As with everything about Kiyoomi, they had to work their way up to getting further and further in their intimate moments. It took a while before he let Atsumu run his hands under his shirt, and a little bit more before he was comfortable taking clothes off. First the shirt. Then the pants. 

He wasn’t sure if he could ever go all the way. He _wanted_ it, though. Like nothing else.

There were rules. The moment they progressed past kissing, Kiyoomi listed them down. They both had to be squeaky clean before engaging in their intimate acts. And they both showered after. Separately. Atsumu had taken to going around the room wearing Kiyoomi’s clothes — it was either that or he’d stay naked because _“the amount of showering I’m doing, I simply don’t have that many clothes, Omi. Do you see me carrying a suitcase?”_

Kiyoomi liked him in his clothes. And at least he knew they were freshly laundered.

Everything was good. It was _liberating_. But a deadline was looming over their little pocket of paradise. Atsumu wasn’t going to be there forever.

Their kisses started tasting like urgency. Hands gripped harder, teeth left bruises. Something unexplainable was building in Kiyoomi.

“Atsumu,” he panted. “I want — I want —”

Atsumu groaned and dropped his sweat-slicked forehead onto Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Omi, you have to be sure.”

“I _am_. Do you have —?”

“Yeah.” He lifted his head, grinning sheepishly. “I was hoping — but I didn’t actually think —”

“Get it.”

Atsumu scrambled off the bed and dug around in his discarded coat. Kiyoomi raised a brow. How shameless of him.

He thumbed at his boxers. _Just do it, it’s hardly ever as bad as you fear_ , he told himself. He took a deep breath and discarded it off the side of the bed. As he lay there naked, all he could think was that he was thankful his parents were out. After all, it was the middle of a weekday. Is this a proper time to be devirginized? Probably not, but who cared?

He watched Atsumu straighten from the floor, clutching a packet of condom and lube, and freeze the moment he turned and saw him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“H-how do you want to do this?” Atsumu asked. “Honestly, I’m up for anything.”

Kiyoomi thought of it for a moment. He wasn’t sure he could bear the thought of him entering Atsumu, even if his skin was protected by a condom. “I don’t think I — you do it.” He hiked his knees up and spread them.

Atsumu sucked in a breath through his teeth and closed his eyes. “Oh, Jesus. I won’t survive this, I won’t.”

“Can you get here already? You’re making me anxious.”

Atsumu took off his own boxers and Kiyoomi drank his fill greedily. Jesus. What a gorgeous body. Those _thighs_.

When Atsumu reached him on the bed, he said, “Tell me to stop and I will.”

He nodded.

“It might hurt. It might be uncomfortable.”

He nodded again.

“And it _will_ get messy.”

“Tsumu,” he finally snapped. “I know.” He reached up and dragged him close.

“Wait — I read that it’s more comfortable if you were on your knees.”

Kiyoomi shook his head. “I need to see your face. To ground me.” He tried to tug at Atsumu again, impatiently.

“We can’t just —! There’s such a thing as foreplay, Omi-Omi! Would you let me put my mouth here?” Atsumu’s fingers brushed between his legs, and it startled out a moan from Kiyoomi.

“Maybe one day,” he breathed out. “Not now. I want to kiss you, and I can’t if you put that mouth in weird places.”

“Okay,” Atsumu laughed a little. “Anything you want.”

“Then _get here already_.”

This time Atsumu obeyed.

\--

Later, they panted at the ceiling side by side.

“Please,” Atsumu began. “Please tell me we can do that again.”

The whole experience had felt like an eternity to Kiyoomi, but it couldn’t have taken more than a handful of minutes. It was clumsy, and confusing, with pain mixing with pleasure, but hell if he could lie and say he didn’t want to do it again.

“I —” Kiyoomi hissed when he tried to move. “Give me some time.”

They only had three days left.

Atsumu turned and hovered a hand over him. “Are you —”

“I’m fine. Just sore.” He took stock of himself. “I...really need a bath. Now.”

“Can I join you?”

Now that they’ve both bared themselves to each other, the idea didn’t sound bad. It didn’t sound bad at all. “Yes.”

Atsumu got what he wanted from Kiyoomi under the warm spray of the shower. Leaning his head on the bathroom wall, clutching at Atsumu’s hair, Kiyoomi closed his eyes and let himself go.

\--

They did it again. And again. And again. It became a full blown addiction. Kiyoomi wasn’t sure if he still recognized himself.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to go back.

It was Friday night and Atsumu was leaving the next morning. “It’s a long, long ride back to Hyogo,” he’d said.

Kiyoomi threw his limbs over him and pressed his nose against his neck. Atsumu smelled like his soap. He liked it.

Maybe if he trapped him in here, he won’t be able to slip away. He was already so used to Atsumu. He didn’t like the thought of him leaving, of his routine changing yet again.

But he knew he himself had to return to his own life. School was starting soon. And he hadn’t been back to therapy since Atsumu blew into his carefully constructed world.

He told Atsumu this.

“Is that alright?” Atsumu said, frowning.

“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi yawned. “I’ve missed sessions before. I still take my meds every day. I just have a lot to tell him when we see each other again.”

“You gonna talk about me?” Atsumu teased.

“I already did,” he replied sleepily. “Before. After training camp.”

“And?”

“He said you’d be a good friend for me and encouraged me to try. He was right about it.”

Atsumu was silent for a long while. “Is that what you want? To be friends?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, of course. You’re a good friend, Tsumu. Thank you.” He was losing his battle with sleep. He tried to put it off for as long as he could, greedy for every moment with Atsumu.

“I see,” Atsumu said. His voice seemed far away.

As Kiyoomi dropped off into sleep, Atsumu murmured something, but his mind failed to grasp it.

\--

When Kiyoomi woke the next morning, every trace of him was gone. No goodbye, no note, not even a text.

Not even days later, when Atsumu had surely settled back in his hometown. Not even when school started, the suddenness of it feeling like a whiplash to Kiyoomi. He’d tried of course. He’d sent a message, tried to call. But he had enough dignity not to beg. Atsumu was simply gone, as quietly and as suddenly as he came.

Perhaps it would have been merciful if it ended there. But life simply wasn’t that kind to Kiyoomi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, my Catholic upbringing makes it hard for me to write smut okay. This is the best I could do right now!!
> 
> Also, heh. I did say they make a mess of it for years right?


	5. Chapter 5

He was almost asleep when his phone lit up with a call.

The name _Miya Atsumu_ greeted Kiyoomi when he checked, and he was immediately very awake. For a second, he was back in that stairwell, in that cold December night, getting his first kiss. And then reality came crashing down.

He has not heard from Atsumu since he left in the spring.

He was suddenly _furious_ , for the first time in a long time. How dare he? Kiyoomi gave him _everything_ , and he just left him. And now he had the nerve to call? He was clearly alive and healthy, and obviously not dead in a ditch, like Kiyoomi feared for a while back then.

Atsumu simply did not give a shit about him, or what he took from Kiyoomi. The thought made his heart throb painfully in remembered pain.

But his thumb acted without permission, swiping to answer the call.

For a few terrifying seconds there was no sound over the phone. And then —

“Hey, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu said, voice so familiarly cheerful. As if they’d just spoken yesterday, instead of over six months ago.

Kiyoomi’s lips trembled, missing Atsumu so much in that moment. But he needed to get himself together. He promised himself he wouldn’t be weak when it came to Atsumu, not anymore.

“What do you want,” he answered in the flattest voice he could manage.

“Well,” Atsumu said, unaffected. “Do you know what day it is today?”

Kiyoomi frowned. It was past midnight so it was October 5th. “No?”

“It’s my birthday, silly! You should greet me!”

Through gritted teeth, Kiyoomi said, “Happy birthday, then.”

“I’m officially 18. And officially older than you, Omi-Omi.”

He rolled his eyes at that. “I’ll be catching up in a few months. Besides, if we’re talking about maturity levels, I’m years ahead.”

“That offends me at a deep level.”

He sighed. “What do you want, really?”

“Just wanted to catch up. Been a while since we last talked, huh?”

 _Is six months “a while” for him?_ Chest throbbing, Kiyoomi said, “Fine. What have you been up to?”

“Eh, same stuff. Volleyball — oh, I’m the team captain now — classes, stil torture...nothing really happens in my city. What about you? Hey, we’ll be seeing each other again at Nationals, won’t we?”

Kiyoomi shut his eyes. “You’ll be seeing Itachiyama, maybe. If they win in the qualifiers. Not me.”

“What?” Atsumu demanded, and there was the sound of shuffling, followed by a thunk. “Why not?”

He wondered if he should tell Atsumu. But he saw no reason to lie, especially if there was a possibility the lie would come back around and bite him in the ass. He’d already told Atsumu nearly everything anyway.

“I had a relapse, Atsumu,” he said.

“I—what?”

“You heard me,” he sighed. He made himself comfortable under his blankets. “It just — everything just piled up. Again. And things with my parents got bad.” _And you left me_ , he didn’t say.

“Bad how?” Atsumu pushed.

And here was the part he must disappoint Atsumu. He hated that he cared. But he did. “Tsumu, I...I’m going to college. They really wanted me to. Wouldn’t take no for an answer, in fact.”

“College is fine if that’s what you want, Omi-kun. Is it?”

“I’m not opposed to it. I do want to further my education. The compromise was that I get to choose my course and that I get to try out for the university’s volleyball team. And anything I do after I graduate is my decision.”

“That,” Atsumu sighed. “That sounds like a pretty good compromise.”

“They’re just afraid of me breaking down again. Especially since I had a relapse.”

“How bad was it?”

“It wasn’t as bad as before, if that’s what you’re asking. I didn’t have a complete breakdown. The symptoms just got as bad as it was before. _Before_ , before.”

“I see. How are you feeling?”

 _I think of you sometimes, but I wish I didn’t_. “Better. I’m still seeing Naoki-san. It helps to have a familiar face helping me through this again. My parents wanted me to switch therapists when I got bad again but I shot that down and told them they were the reason I was literally fucking going crazy.”

“I would have paid to see that,” Atsumu mused. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, Omi-Omi.”

The nickname hurt a little. Only Atsumu ever called him that. “Yeah, well. It’s done. It sucked to realize I’m going to have to live with this with the rest of my life but...it will get better. And easier. That’s what Naoki-san said anyway. Especially when my parents are out of the picture. They’re my main stressor.”

They were silent for a few moments. Kiyoomi wondered how it was still so easy to talk to Atsumu after all this time.

“I’m glad you’re doing better,” Atsumu finally said. He cleared his throat then said, “So remember the series I was talking about last time, turns out there’s going to be a second season…”

They talked until sun rays started to seep into his room. Kiyoomi told himself it was fine, because it was a Saturday, anyway. Hell, they could talk the entire day away, and he wouldn’t lose anything except sleep.

When the harsh noon light woke him up, he jerked up in bed and fumbled for his phone. He didn’t remember saying goodbye to Atsumu, didn’t even remember the last thing either of them said before he dropped into sleep.

When he checked his phone, there was a “Ya feel asleep on me, Omi-Omi! Hope you know you owe me a phone call. Good night,” along with a heart emoji.

He collapsed back into his pillows and placed a hand over his chest, as if that would calm his thundering heart.

And just like that, Miya Atsumu was back.

\--

Atsumu started calling after school hours. Most of the time they stuck to phone calls, but sometimes Atsumu would video call him, usually when he was in a quiet place outdoors. Was he in some kind of garden? Farm?

Atsumu still attended club practices, so sometimes the call would come in pretty late, but Kiyoomi still found himself lengthening his strides on the way home, eager to get to his room.

Which made it all the more upsetting when the call didn’t come.

The first time it happened, Kiyoomi relearned just how heavy disappointment could be. He hated himself for waiting for his phone to ring. Hated when he’d straighten with every notification, only for slump with defeat when the name he wanted to see didn’t pop up on his screen.

Hated that it happened again and again and again.

And he hated that sometimes, he would be the one to send a message to Atsumu, gently reminding the idiot of his existence. He’d say, “I think I may have eaten undercooked food, and now I’m paranoid.” Was the silent _“call me”_ too obvious?

Atsumu often indulged him, calling him instantly, saying “I’m sure the food wasn’t undercooked, do you have a stomach ache?” But sometimes, he’d be full of excuses, saying “Sorry, Omi-kun, I’m loaded down with school work, I’ll talk to you later, ‘kay?”

And _later_ would turn out to be _two weeks later_ , but Kiyoomi told himself he had no right to be upset.

They adhered to a schedule that made sense only in Atsumu’s unknowable mind. He’d call every day for three weeks, then disappear with no word and no warning for two.

And when he called again eventually, he acted like he’d only just remembered that this was something they do now, and never provided any explanations, and always acted like he expected Kiyoomi to pick up.

He always picked up.

Komori, whom he’d finally made up with when he relapsed, would look at him reproachfully.

“Seriously? That guy again? In case you don’t know, he _ghosted_ you months ago, Sakusa. How many times are you going to let him do this to you? This isn’t you, you know?”

And Kiyoomi would firmly say, “We weren’t anything. We _aren’t_ anything.” Just two friends catching up every once in a while.

If two friends slept together and engaged in deep conversations that lasted until past midnight.

On the nights his phone was silent, Kiyoomi would curl up in bed gazing at his balcony doors, curtains pushed aside to let the moonlight in. A part of him hoping that a certain piss colored-haired young man would lift himself up to his balcony and let himself into his room. So rude. So improper. So Atsumu.

Until now, he wasn’t sure if those two weeks last spring were a fever dream. Did that really happen? Was that really him? Sometimes he couldn’t help but remember the feeling of Atsumu over him, under him, inside him. Couldn’t help but remember lips so vulgar but so soft, pressing against skin.

And then there was Atsumu’s smile, thrown over a shoulder as he led Kiyoomi through the night. _“You can’t tell me you’ve never snuck out even once in your life, Omi-Omi,”_ he’d whispered. He never had, actually. Why would he? They’d only gotten as far as the nearest vending machine, because Atsumu had wanted strawberry milk.

He often thought about the fluorescent glow staining Atsumu’s hair, as he came in close to the glass to study the options, when he already knew what he was getting anyway. It had been 2 a.m. — any other night, Kiyoomi would have been in bed, but that night, he watched Atsumu stab a straw into the carton and wondered how he could be so impulsive and reckless and free.

He was everything Kiyoomi wanted to be. Everything Kiyoomi wanted in his life.

It may have been just sex for Atsumu, but it wasn’t for Kiyoomi.

\--

Time trickled by. Kiyoomi always found it strange, almost impossible, how life can simply go on as normal no matter what he was going through, be it a breakdown, a relapse — or even the constant heartache that comes with missing someone.

He also found it laughable how easy it was to get used to the swing of things. Was it because he was always subconsciously trying to fit his life into routines?

So when Atsumu suddenly called after another week and a half of radio silence, he was no longer surprised. He picked up without a thought, ignoring the automatic rush of adrenaline.

“Yes?”

“Omi-Omi! Whatcha planning for winter holidays?”

His heart rate further increased. “I’m forced to spend December 30 to January 1 with my family, but other than that, nothing. Why?”

“Samu and I are staying with our aunt again. She lives alone, you know? Her kids are all grown up, and they live out of the country, so…wanna hang out?”

He tried to keep it cool. “Sure. Don’t your parents mind? You spending the holidays away from home?”

“Nah. They’re still trying to convince us to eventually make a living there. They’re glad about it. And they like that our aunt won’t be alone.”

“Then you should stay with your aunt.”

“She won’t mind if I’m gone sometimes. She likes Samu better anyway.”

“Sounds valid.” He paused to bid goodbye to his rationality once again. “We can hang out. How long will you be staying here?”

“Almost two whole weeks.” _Another two weeks with Atsumu._

“Let me know your plans.”

“See you, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu said. There was a wicked smile in his voice that only promised trouble.

Maybe Kiyoomi has truly lost his mind because he found himself looking forward to it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've read the tags and the warnings, right? Just checking.

Kiyoomi was quick to snatch his phone up when the message came.

It was a selfie of Atsumu, a peace sign thrown up.

 **Tsumu** : Merry Christmas, Omi-Omi! Guess who’s in Tokyo now

He grinned down at his phone. Impulsively, he sent a selfie back, awkward and nowhere near as cute as Atsumu’s, but he found it hard to care at the time.

 **Omi** : Merry Christmas. When do we meet?

His phone rang and he picked up.

“Now?” Atsumu asked.

“What? But —” he glanced outside. It was nearing dusk.

“C’mon! We can’t waste time! I’ve already dropped my things in my aunt’s house, let’s go,” Atsumu whined.

Well, both his parents weren’t due home yet...he could just send them a text saying he was hanging out with Komori and not to wait up for him.

“Where?”

“Hey, I’ve always wanted to see the winter illuminations. Whatdya say we go to Shibuya?”

He was already making his way to his bathroom. “Give me an hour.”

\--

 **Sakusa** : Komori, if my parents ask you, tell them I’m hanging out with you.

 **Komori** : ?? And where will you be?

 **Sakusa** : Nowhere important. Don’t bother me for now. Bye

 **Komori** : I think I already know. You idiot.

\--

Kiyoomi was the one to see him first, and he paused to study him in the distance.

Atsumu was standing alone amidst the moving crowd, typing something on his phone. The quickly darkening sky washed him out, gave him an air of someone so distant and lonely that Kiyoomi wanted to go over and hold his hand.

He took a step forward, and for some reason, that was enough to catch Atsumu’s attention — he looked up and grinned. “Omi-Omi!” he called out. But he didn’t rush over, didn’t grab him into a hug, like he half-expected (or hoped). Kiyoomi took the cue from him, and stalked towards him slowly, avoiding the bodies strolling around.

Those few seconds felt like forever to Kiyoomi, but he took the time to pull himself together. _You are not stupid_ , he reminded himself. _Don’t act stupid, don’t do anything stupid._

When he was in front of Atsumu, they studied each other for a while, checking to see what changed since they last saw each other. Atsumu’s hair was a little longer, still as blonde as ever, and he looked a little broader, but that was it. The smirk was still very Atsumu.

“Miss me?”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes at him, glad he decided to wear a mask today. “Let’s go. The lights should be turned on by now.”

They strolled across the Blue Cave slowly. Well, Kiyoomi did — Atsumu was hopping around like an excited child, snapping photos, and chattering all the while. How he could have that much energy after a long trip, he would never understand.

“You’re probably pretty sick of this already, huh?” Atsumu said, studying his face.

Kiyoomi shook his head. “I haven’t been this year, yet.” 

“Perfect.” He grabbed Kiyoomi by the arm and started tugging.

Kiyoomi followed.

When they got sick of that, they strolled mindlessly around Shibuya, thinking of something to do. When they passed a konbini, Atsumu suddenly stopped and impulsively rushed through the doors.

Kiyoomi sighed, then followed him in.

Atsumu was grabbing a bunch of random snacks from the shelves. “Somehow I think you don’t eat these. Or ever tried these, even.”

He frowned at the pile of sweets. “That’s not what your body needs, and you know that. You’re an athlete.”

“Are you a robot or something?” Atsumu widened his eyes at him dramatically. “We’re young, we can eat sweets if we want. I’m making you try these, I simply can’t allow you to live your life like this, Omi-Omi.”

Kiyoomi bit the inside of his lip. He hasn’t been playing volleyball, deeming it better for his mental health to stick to yoga instead. The sweets probably wouldn’t hurt, even though he wasn't a fan of them. And Atsumu was right, he hadn’t tried most of the snacks he’d grabbed. “Fine.”

Atsumu cheered, then zipped his way to the cashier.

Outside, Atsumu studied his bag of unhealthy snacks and said, “I can’t believe you haven’t eaten most of these. Did no one ever drag you to chill outside a konbini after school?”

“No.”

“Wait, really?”

“Komori, I guess, but he stopped that when it was clear I didn’t enjoy it.”

Atsumu stared at him. “Omi, do you ever get lonely?”

 _Not until I met you_. “No.”

“Hmm.” Atsumu looked away into the distance, then said, “Let’s just hang out at Yoyogi Park.”

When they arrived at the park, which was mostly empty, they settled on a bench.

It was well into the night now. His parents were probably home, probably already ate dinner. They just said “OK” to his text earlier, and his phone hasn’t been buzzing so he supposed they weren’t looking for him.

“Here, this is my favorite. Try this,” Atsumu commanded.

Removing his mask and tucking it into his coat pocket, Kiyoomi obeyed. It was sweet and sour and chewy and he loved it. He refused to tell Atsumu, but he silently accepted every piece of candy forced onto his hand.

After a while, Atsumu said, “You never told me what you thought about that manga I made you read.”

Time slipped away from them as they talked, bodies slowly angling to face each other. Kiyoomi always relished conversations with Atsumu — he rarely felt this comfortable with other people. The only other person he could talk this way with was Komori, but even then he just let his cousin babble on while he pretended to listen.

There was no pretending here. He hung on to every word, listening to the lilting, almost musical Kansai dialect that rolled off Atsumu’s tongue. He felt almost hypnotized and wondered if sugar high was a real thing.

“Hey, Omi,” Atsumu said. His face was suddenly very close, and Kiyoomi wondered when they started gravitating towards each other.

“What?”

“What do you wish for this Christmas?”

 _Already got it_ , he thought. “My family doesn’t really celebrate Christmas.”

“Still, no harm in wishing, right? Do you not want anything?” Half-lidded brown eyes flicked down to Kiyoomi’s lips and he was suddenly consumed with _want_.

“I suppose there is one thing.” His eyes dropped to Atsumu’s lips without permission.

And that was the only reason he saw the kiss coming.

Atsumu’s mouth on his felt like an old memory coming to life — familiar but at the same time unbelievable. Exhilarating. He was dizzy, and he knew it wasn’t because of the sugar.

He kissed back with all the desperation that built up over nine months.

Nine months.

When his brain caught up with what was happening, he pulled away, gasping for air. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he hissed. He glanced around. There was no one else in the dimly-lit park.

“Sorry. Wanna take this back to your room so we have privacy?” Atsumu said, eyes glittering mischievously.

He wanted to shake Atsumu, yell that that wasn’t what he meant, but what came out was — 

“Yes.”

At that moment, he simply did not care. It’s been nine months and Atsumu was there. Nothing else mattered.

\--

Atsumu didn’t come through his balcony, not this time. After Kiyoomi peeked into the house and assured himself that his parents were asleep, he let Atsumu through the front door.

They tiptoed their way in, Kiyoomi having to shush a giggling Atsumu. He thought his heart couldn’t beat any louder when they made their way up the stairs — if his parents decided to come out of their room then and there, they’d catch the two of them red-handed.

But they made it to Kiyoomi’s room with no incidents. Atsumu snickered when they stumbled in.

“This is not me,” Kiyoomi muttered as he locked the door. “Making crazy, impulsive decisions is _not_ me —”

He was whirled around and pressed against the wall. Atsumu leaned in dangerously close. “Or maybe this is the you that you never let yourself be.”

Kiyoomi stared at him, holding his breath.

“Omi. How are the bees?”

He whispered, “Quiet.”

“One last chance to back out.”

There were many, many reasons why he shouldn’t do this. Kiyoomi knew each one.

Did he care?

“No.”

They didn’t even bother with the usual shower. For tonight, the rules were out the window. They tumbled to the bed, and thought no more.

\--

“Okay, _now_ we have to shower. Thoroughly.” The high has faded — Kiyoomi had put off the compulsion long enough. “And I need to change the sheets. Are you staying?”

Atsumu was sprawled on his stomach, face buried in a pillow. He groaned intelligibly.

“We’re bathing, or I’m kicking you out.”

The other boy finally stirred, rolling over to his back. He raised a hand to his face and pushed his hair back. Stared at the ceiling. “Holy shit.”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, and left him there.

Atsumu eventually followed him to the bathroom, shamelessly naked. He hopped into the shower with him without even asking, and Kiyoomi really wanted to know where he gets his nerve, but he wasn’t going to lie and say he didn’t want him there.

In fact, Atsumu was right where he wanted him.

He wasn’t about to let him go anywhere.

\--

They fell into a familiar routine. Whenever they could get away with it, Atsumu would sneak into his room. Even when Kiyoomi’s family started celebrating the upcoming New Year as December came to an end, he still let Atsumu in through the balcony at night, and he’d disappear out his balcony doors hours before sunrise. The only good thing about this year’s family affair was that his siblings were unable to visit home.

The last day of the year arrived, but before it could pass, Atsumu texted him.

 **Tsumu** : Meet me at the vending machine, you know the one

_Now?_

**Omi** : It’s quarter to midnight. I have to be up in a few hours so I can go to the temple with my parents

 **Tsumu** : Pretty pleaseee, I’m already near. Isn’t it great the trains have extra late services for NYE?

 **Omi** : What is wrong with you??

 **Tsumu** : Don’t keep me waiting Omi-kun!

He had only ever snuck out once, months ago with Atsumu, to go to that damn vending machine for strawberry milk. To have to do it alone was daunting — without Atsumu there he was less brave.

He groaned to himself. Stupid, stupid. He knew he was being stupid. But he found himself bundling up for the cold anyway, checking the hallway one last time, before locking his door and stepping out onto his balcony.

The way down seemed horribly long, and the moonlit garden seemed to stretch out like an endless field. He’d never felt so uncertain and alone. But he told himself Atsumu would be waiting on the other side. He gripped the handle of the ladder and hoisted himself over.

The ladder extending to the ground had never felt louder, and his strides had never felt slower. But by the time he reached their gate he was starting to feel invigorated, and he ended up bracing his hands on the fence and jumping over it instead of opening the gate like a normal person.

Once he hit the street, he started running, laughing a little.

Atsumu was already by the vending machine, crouched down to collect his drink. When Kiyoomi skidded to a stop, Atsumu looked up and for a second, he remembered that strange moment outside the Ajinomoto Training Center, when they locked eyes and the world stopped.

This felt like that moment.

Atsumu straightened, a smile slowly blooming on his face. “You came.”

Kiyoomi forced himself to walk towards him slowly. “If I didn’t, I might feel shitty about it later, so I’m avoiding that. Want to explain why you’re here?”

Atsumu handed him a strawberry milk once he stopped in front of him. “Remember when we came here last time?”

“Yeah.” He stabbed a straw into the carton and sipped slowly. The flavor burst in his mouth, and it tasted like a long-forgotten spring.

“You know, I love strawberry milk, I drink it every once in a while. But for some reason, it never tasted the same since that night. You know?”

Kiyoomi blinked at him.

“Don’t know why. So I decided,” Atsumu knocked on the vending machine’s glass surface. “It’s this one. It has to be this vending machine, and this brand of milk, and I have to drink it with the same person I drank it with.”

As if to test his theory, Atsumu took a sip from his own drink and groaned. “Yes, see I was right.”

“So you’re here for the milk,” Kiyoomi stated. He couldn’t help but feel amused. Atsumu was so strange to him.

“And for a midnight kiss, of course. Gotta ring in the New Year right.” He smiled at Kiyoomi devilishly.

“What time is it?” Kiyoomi asked, trying to appear collected.

Atsumu dug out his phone and checked. “Five to 12.”

“Well, if I must.”

“You must.”

Kiyoomi didn’t bother to wait for the clock to strike 12. He gripped Atsumu’s shoulders and drew him close.

And he kissed him.

They didn’t separate until well past midnight, the strawberry milk forgotten on the ground.

\--

Later, as he lay alone in bed, he finally accepted it.

 _You idiot_ , he told himself. _You’re in love._

Maybe he had been all this time.

\--

When it was time for Atsumu to leave, he wouldn’t let Kiyoomi see him off at the station.

“It’s too far,” Atsumu said. “I’ll get my stuff from my aunt’s place, say goodbye, then go straight back home. Seriously, don’t bother yourself with it.”

As he got dressed, Atsumu chattered about how he and his teammates were going to have to jump right into training, and won’t stop until they have to leave for the Nationals. It was going to be held in Tokyo in another week or so, and Kiyoomi wondered if he’d get a chance to see Atsumu again at any point during the tournament. Probably not.

“...team’s group chat is alive again, they’re ready to train again. Hope they didn’t fatten up during the holidays.”

Kiyoomi nodded. Atsumu was ready to go, and there was no point trying to delay this. His parents were out; he walked Atsumu past the front door, past the walkway, and stalled by the gate.

He tugged at the lapel of Atsumu’s coat. “Good luck. With Nationals.”

Atsumu grinned. “Thanks. I’ll kick your team’s ass.”

Kiyoomi scoffed. Forced himself to take a step back. “Well. Bye.”

“Bye, Omi-Omi.” Atsumu, too, took a step back.

Kiyoomi decided then and there that he hated nothing more than goodbyes.

He watched Atsumu’s back as he left. He never looked back.

**2014**

There was a moment that night when they were kissing near the vending machine, where Kiyoomi thought, _Maybe he likes me, too. People don’t just do this, do they?_

And Atsumu had kissed him like he meant it — Kiyoomi was so sure he meant it.

But staring at his silent phone, the familiar bitter feeling of disappointment heavy in his chest, he decided he’d been wrong. Apparently, Atsumu can give earth-shattering kisses just as easily as he could pull off heartbreaking disappearances.

He wondered if the whole thing had felt like a dream to Atsumu, too, and if he snapped awake the moment he stepped foot in his hometown. If he went, _Oh well, back to my life now_ , and compartmentalized Kiyoomi to the back of his mind. The opposite was true for Kiyoomi — he felt like he was still stuck in a haze, unable to move on. He was haunted by Atsumu every single day.

Kiyoomi was one to learn from his mistakes. He had prepared himself for this possibility, based on historical data.

That did not mean it hurt any less.

He flopped onto his back on his bed. “I hate you, Miya Atsumu,” he said to his ceiling.

It hurt even worse because the words tasted like a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta get off...gonna get out of this merry-go-round...
> 
> Don't tell me ya haven't ever been stupid like Omi. This entire fic is based on PERSONAL EXPERIENCE
> 
> Things will Start Changing next chapter. Kind of.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, sorry! I'll make it up to you in the next chapters, they're monsters.

**2014**

Come spring, everything seemed brighter. Another birthday passed — without a call or greeting from Atsumu, because they stopped talking completely when they parted ways at the train station — but he felt lucky to even see another year. And the best part of it was he was finally moving out soon. He told his parents he was going to live on his own near campus, or else he simply won’t show up to university. They hastily agreed. It wasn’t like money was an issue to them.

Kiyoomi’s decisions, however, were.

He’d been admitted into Chuo, against all odds. He had submitted medical certificates and a written explanation to explain the inconsistent performance, which to be fair, happened only for two periods of time. He supposed that was enough for them.

He didn’t know how to feel when he got the letter. An admissions offer had reached out to him after, sounding sympathetic on the phone. She said his grades were actually excellent before the “episodes,” and he was a known volleyball player before and she hoped he would try out for the team if he was up for it. But before anything else, he had to agree to mandated counseling.

He said yes. To all of it.

The semester wasn’t starting until April, so he had a couple weeks or so. He’d just graduated, finally, so he wanted to breathe for a bit before starting to pack.

He had to admit he felt sad about leaving his room. It held good memories, as fleeting as they were.

It was a fine, innocuous morning when a tap sounded on his balcony door. He froze.

It couldn’t be. He was just imagining things.

There was another tap. Followed by the sound of a pebble hitting concrete.

As if in a daze, he made his way out to his balcony.

Sure enough, Miya Atsumu was there, in broad daylight. He was still as blonde and handsome as ever, something that vaguely upset Kiyoomi. Atsumu was looking up at him, a familiar devilish grin lighting up his face. He had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his thin jacket, and he was bouncing on his toes, as if he wasn’t sure if he was going to be let in, but he was hoping anyway.

Kiyoomi leaned against the railing, bracing himself with his forearms. He gazed down at Atsumu and sighed. He wanted to ask Atsumu just who the hell he thought he was, coming here, ready to break Kiyoomi's heart again. He wanted to laugh and call his therapist and tell him he might be having a relapse.

Because he already knew what he was going to do.

After much too long just staring at each other in contemplation, Kiyoomi finally swung himself over to the ladder. Kicked the bottom half down. Climbed back up, and slipped back into his room.

He sat on the bed waiting.

Atsumu entered the room, murmuring, “Pardon the intrusion.” He turned and slid the door closed.

After a few seconds of seemingly bracing himself, he turned around and locked eyes with Kiyoomi.

“Happy birthday, Omi-Omi.”

“What are you doing here?”

Atsumu started making his way over to him slowly. “Visiting my aunt. Might be a while before I can do so again.” Atsumu scratched at his cheek, avoiding Kiyoomi’s eyes. “I can’t stay for long. I...I’m moving to Osaka. I’m signing with the MSBY Black Jackals.”

“Osaka, huh?” Kiyoomi murmured. All he could think was that Osaka was not Tokyo. Where Kiyoomi will be studying. “Oh. Well, goodluck with that.”

“Yeah. Uh, what about you? College, huh?”

He nodded. “Chuo. I’m moving out. Got an apartment near campus.”

“Really? Wow. Finally gonna escape your parents, then?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. He bit the bullet. “What are you doing here? Just showing up here is rude, you know?” God, he sounded like his mother.

Atsumu met his gaze again. “I can’t be in Tokyo and not see you, Omi.”

The funny thing about grieving someone is that the pain does not disappear. It gets easier to bear, sure. Many days, you even forget it’s there. But other days...it just hits you again full force.

Right now, a familiar ache in his chest was making itself known again. Softly, he asked, “How long will you stay?”

“Four days.”

Kiyoomi had never been one to make impulsive decisions, but he’d long accepted that Atsumu was his exception. All he could think about was four days was more than enough. Just one last time. He’ll allow himself a moment of weakness, just one last time.

He stood up, grasped Atsumu’s face, and kissed him. Right then, he didn’t care about when Atsumu last showered, or washed his hands, or brushed his teeth. He didn’t care if Atsumu smeared all his filth on him — he was already stained.

If he was going to let the storm in again, he wanted to be properly destroyed.

Maybe then he’d have a hope of rebuilding.

\--

Their movements, while familiar, were different from before. Less excited, more urgent. Less clumsy, more intentional. It felt like waves crashing. Like tides coming and going. Inevitable. Destructive. And all-encompassing.

He’d say they were making love, if he wasn’t certain that Atsumu didn’t love him.

\--

“How are the bees?” Atsumu murmured to him as the sun started to sink in the horizon. He was going to have to leave soon if he was going to avoid Kiyoomi’s parents returning home.

“Silent,” he answered honestly. “I’ve been doing well lately.” He really was, despite having his heart broken. Again.

Strong arms wrapped tighter around him. “I’m glad.”

Kiyoomi ran his fingers across the veins on Atsumu’s forearms. “You’ll have to leave soon.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“My parents will arrive in about an hour. We’re gonna have dinner together, I’m gonna have to clean up after.” Atsumu should already know this.

“Can’t I just hide in here?”

“It will take a while.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Don’t you have an aunt you’re supposed to visit?” After all, Kiyoomi was just a side quest.

“She really won’t be expecting me to actually be around. I just gotta pop in every once in a while. Samu’s there with her.”

Kiyoomi really, really didn’t want him to leave. If he only had four days, then he wasn’t sending him away. “Okay. Stay.”

Once Atsumu leaves, he’ll beat himself up over this. He will. He’ll even let Komori beat him up over this. He really wouldn’t be pleased to hear about this.

Just four days, damn it. Happiness came few and far between, he had to grasp it with both hands when he could. And then, he promised himself, he was letting Miya Atsumu go.

\--

But then, just as Atsumu was leaving, he said, “You should come meet me at Osaka.”

“What?”

“Just...I don’t know. I could show you around. We could spend a weekend together.”  
  
“But — when?”

“Before your classes start, maybe?”

“That’s in a week and a half.”

Atsumu’s lips twisted in disappointment. “Guess it’s cutting it too short, huh?”

“It is.” But Kiyoomi’s heart was racing. Could this be it? He wanted to say _yes, yes I’ll meet you in Osaka_. But…

“Tell you what. I’ll still wait. There’s a park I discovered that I like, I’ll send you the location. This weekend.” Atsumu walked backwards, hand reaching behind him for the balcony door. When he reached it, he slid it open, and finally turned.

Kiyoomi thought he'd memorized the sight of his back by now. Atsumu was a tornado he kept letting in — he comes, he destroys, and before Kiyoomi could even register the damage, he was out the door.

But Atsumu looked back over his shoulder this time, tossing him a grin. “Don’t disappoint me, Omi-Omi!”

And then he was gone. Expecting Kiyoomi to follow, naturally.

\--

March 29, 2014 came and went and Kiyoomi didn’t meet Atsumu in Osaka. He’d received a location and a time and a message reading, “It will be fun, Omi-Omi! I think you’ll like this city.”

He’d watched 3 p.m. pass, sobbing all the while, scaring Komori, who’d come to make sure he wouldn’t hop on a shinkansen to Osaka. Kiyoomi thought he would never in his life feel pain worse than hurting Atsumu. He imagined Atsumu’s lonely figure waiting on a park bench, and he cried like his heart was breaking. It was. _Again_.

But Kiyoomi said four days. He always followed through with his goals.

He wasn’t stupid, he _knew_ he wasn’t stupid. He always considered himself rational to the point of being cold. When did it happen? When did he lose himself?

He didn’t know what happened to the Kiyoomi he used to be before Atsumu, but it was time to meet him again.

\--

Just like that, Atsumu was gone from his life again. This time, he doesn’t hear from him for years. Not when Atsumu was officially announced to be the newest member of the MSBY Black Jackals.

And not even when Atsumu moved to America two years later.

Atsumu left with the tide, and Kiyoomi was stuck gazing out at the horizon from the shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles manically* Can anyone guess where they'll meet next?
> 
> Also, hope you don't mind if I change the summary, since the quote I always wanted to use is finally hereeee (the bit about the tornado)


	8. Chapter 8

**2018**

When he met Miya Atsumu again, he was anticipating him, but it turned out he was still not ready for him.

Because Miya Atsumu was a looker when he was 17, but he was _devastating_ at 22.

His hair was different — it was lighter, and he learned to style it into this deliberately floppy mess that shouldn’t be so attractive. He got a bit taller (but still not as tall as Kiyoomi, something that pleased him), and a bit bigger (he won that one, Kiyoomi just wasn’t as bulky.) He had grown into his facial features, and Kiyoomi thought that such a sinner shouldn’t look so much like an angel.

The ever present devil-may-care smile, though, that was very him.

 _I guess he had fun in America_ , Kiyoomi thought darkly, ignoring the tiny pang that always came with remembering the day he learned Atsumu was leaving Japan to play in a foreign league.

He didn’t hear it from Atsumu. Instead, he’d seen it on the news. 

Kiyoomi shouldn’t hold it against him, he knew that. When he made the decision not to meet Atsumu in Osaka, he knew what he was giving up. Sure, the relationship was this unnamed, confusing thing they kept killing and reviving — ending it once and for all was the smartest move. Logically, he knew that. Still, when he didn’t show up that day, all communication between them totally ceased, and it hurt like nothing else.

While Kiyoomi was earning his degree, Atsumu played for the Black Jackals for two years. And then, he moved to America to play for a volleyball team there for another two. Based on his Instagram pictures, he seemed to have had the time of his life. The country suited him. He’d always been too wild for Japan. Kiyoomi could honestly say he had a hard time keeping up with him.

But now he’s back. Back in his home country, back with the Black Jackals. And he was staring at Kiyoomi like he wasn’t sure what he was doing there with his old team, when surely he’d have heard about it.

He pushed down all dangerous thoughts when Coach Samson Foster reached him. He was introducing (or reintroducing) Atsumu to everyone. “This here is Sakusa-kun,” he was telling Atsumu. “He came in a little earlier than Hinata. You’ve probably come across each other before, haven’t you?”

Atsumu looked at him impassively. “Once or twice.”

“Miya,” he greeted coolly.

Atsumu nodded back at him.

It’s been four years since he last saw Miya Atsumu, and now they were on the same team. Surely, they could be professional about this. After all, it wasn’t like they were a couple who broke up.

It was just a teenage fling that sizzled into nothingness. Just stupid kids in love. One of them, anyway.

\--

“So,” Atsumu said curiously, when he got him alone. They were all trooping towards their shared housing unit, and the two of them lagged behind. “You actually are here. I couldn’t believe it when I heard.”

“Yes, well. Got sick of Tokyo. I’ve lived there my whole life, needed a change of pace.”

“And I guess you wanted to escape your parents.”

“That, too. They still don’t like that I chose volleyball as a career.”

“I’m proud that you made it, though.” Atsumu of all people would know all the things he had to work through just to get here. Maybe not all the latest details, but the most important of them, sure. “Heard you were MVP of collegiate volleyball.”

Kiyoomi smiled a little. “Yeah. That felt good. There was a time I doubted I could ever play competitively again, but...Naoki-san was right, it just needed a little bit of effort and time and patience.”

“And now you’re here.”

“Now I’m here. And so are you.”

“Yeah.”

They avoided each other’s eyes, awkwardness suddenly filling the air.

 _We’re professionals_ , Kiyoomi reminded himself. _We could be professional about this._

\--

They absolutely could not be professional about it.

In the beginning it was merely awkward. That was normal with any newly formed team. Kiyoomi was new, Hinata Shouyou was new. And while he’d been part of the team before, Atsumu was gone for two years, and came back to a newly formed lineup. _Everything_ was new. They all just needed to sync up.

But even as the rest of the team started pulling themselves together, Kiyoomi and Atsumu simply could not. Kiyoomi couldn’t help his irritation, and on top of Atsumu’s own frustration, they kept grating on each other’s nerves.

They just always seemed the tiniest off-beat. The toss was too low or too high, or Kiyoomi’s jump wasn’t to its full potential, or he jumped too late or too early. Sure, he mostly hit the ball, but everyone knew it could be better.

It’s been _two weeks._

When Hinata managed to receive Sakusa’s spike during practice, he whirled around and snapped at Atsumu, “Seriously? How long are we going to continue on like this?”

“Jeez, I’m sorry! It takes a bit to adjust to new players, alright?”

 _You’ve adjusted to everyone else_ , he wanted to say. But then Foster blew his whistle. “Miya, Sakusa.”

Dejectedly, they headed over to the coach.

“I understand that an adjustment period is unavoidable, but there is no need to be snapping at each other on the court. You two have been at odds with each other from the start.”

“Sorry, Coach,” they said in tandem.

Foster hummed. “This gives me an idea. Perhaps you all are simply not used to each other personally. Of course, how could I be remiss? We all need some team bonding!”

Kiyoomi internally groaned. If Foster only knew…

But the man’s mind was already made up.

Once the practice wrapped up, the entire team was invited to a night out.

Great.

\--

Why is it always spring? Why did Miya Atsumu always crash into his life in the spring?

It used to be Kiyoomi’s favorite season, but now he always associated it with pebbles hitting his balcony door, of strawberry milk and mint, of kisses made intoxicating by the sheer rightness and wrongness of it.

He donned a thin, cream-colored sweater over a crisp white-collared polo and debated wearing a mask. Since taking up psychology in college, he learned a lot about how his mind worked and the ins and outs of his own mental condition. It actually helped him greatly, as it hammered down the fact that his compulsions were irrational, that the world wouldn’t end if he doesn’t do them. That, combined with the fact that he completed his ERP treatment, and still continued to go to therapy, means the bees were silent more often than not. His counselling sessions were now down to just once a month now — he had a new therapist, having had to find one based in Osaka. His tolerance had become incredibly high.

But the thing with OCD is that it’s not curable. He really was going to live with it the rest of his life. He was going to be _medicated_ for the rest of his life. But at least for now, he only needed to take a low dosage of his maintenance meds, and he hardly ever needed the anti-anxiety pills.

He could finally say he was fine. Not every day, not always — there were weeks he felt so normal it was freeing, but there were also weeks where he felt off. It was an everyday battle, but it was one he learned to accept and live with. He was as fine as his mental illness could allow. He had it better than most. He was lucky.

He left out the mask, but compromised by pocketing an anti-anxiety pill. With Atsumu here, he should always be prepared.

After four years, he believed he’d recovered from Atsumu, but he knew more than anyone that a recovering addict would still be affected by the sight of his favorite drug.

Atsumu was literally bad for him.

He walked out the door and met his teammates in the living room. They lived in a rather fancy sharehouse, and they each got a room, although it was not required to stay there. It was a pretty good housing option, though — the kitchen was large and well-equipped, the bathrooms were clean and had big tubs, the couches in the living room were comfy. Every week, some people came in to clean everything, though he always asked them not to enter his room. He cleaned that himself.

Having grown up in a spacious home mostly by himself, Kiyoomi had to admit he liked the setup. He would never tell them, and would deny it if they ever found out, but he liked his teammates. They gave him headaches, but they also took him as he was, as snappish as he was. It’s only been two months, but hearing their racket when he woke up in the morning has become comforting.

He wasn’t alone anymore.

“Hey, hey, hey, Sakusa-kun!” the ever energetic Bokuto Koutarou yelled out in greeting when he showed up. Everyone was already gathered in the living room. His last minute back and forth about the mask must have taken up more time than he thought.

“Ready to go, Sakusa-san?” Hinata said, bouncing to his feet from where he was sitting on the couch. 

“As I’ll ever be.”

In a move borne of habit, his eyes sought out Atsumu. The other man was studying him.

“Well, don’t you look proper,” Atsumu teased, smirking a little. “You can take the boy out of Tokyo, but you can’t take Tokyo out of the boy, huh, Omi-kun?”

“I don’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean, but shut up Atsumu.” He gave him the most unimpressed look he could. He forgot just how irritating Atsumu was when he opened his mouth.

“Omi-kun,” Inunaki Shion, their libero, repeated as if tasting the word. “A nickname? Can we use it?”

“ _No_.” Not this again. Fucking Atsumu.

Hinata pouted. “Omi-san?”

“No. Let’s go already.” He spun on his heels and started stalking away.

Someone whispered, “He really is such a Tokyo boy.”

“That’s a stereotype I don’t appreciate,” he called over his shoulder.

“Eep!”

They went to dinner first, which was a headache-inducing affair, because Hinata and Bokuto together were already loud, but now it was compounded by the presence of Atsumu.

He grit his teeth and listened to them bicker and tease, Atsumu’s annoying Kansai accent grating on his nerves, especially when he started regaling them stories of America.

“The people are really chill. Wild, even. Even I get a little scandalized with them,” he was saying. “Oh, it’s dirty though, an honest to god mess. Hollywood only looks glamorous on TV, it’s all a lie! It’s pretty gross in real life. Omi-kun, you’d definitely have a conniption.”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes at him. “You belong there, then.”

“Hey!”

“Why do I have the feeling my job just got harder with our new recruits?” Meian Shuugo, their team captain, wondered.

Adriah Thomas, their middle blocker, said, “I think you have two jerks to watch out for now.” His Japanese was a bit clumsy, but he seemed to understand them well enough. He always spoke to Hinata in English.

Foster just laughed. “What a colorful bunch you are. I’m rather excited to see how this team grows.”

After the dinner, Foster and the assistant coach bowed out, saying they’re too old to keep up with the “kids.” Now left alone, the members of the team headed to an izakaya.

It was a bad idea.

“You sure you don’t want to have a drink, Sakusa-kun?” Meian asked him at some point. “It’s fine, you know, I could handle everyone. I think.”

“Drink with us, Omi-kun!” Bokuto said. Hinata cheered.

“First, do _not_ call me that. Second, I literally cannot drink, so stop bugging me. It will interfere negatively with my meds,” he said. That was a stretch. But no one had to know that.

“Oooh,” Hinata said. “Right.”

“I forgot to consider that, sorry,” Meian said sheepishly.

“How’s that, by the way?” Atsumu asked, suddenly looking at him intently. “The whole...thing.”

Kiyoomi shrugged. “Good. Better than ever.” It was the truth.

“Good, good.” Atsumu looked away.

“Yo, are you two actually friends?” Inunaki said, looking bemused. “You seem to be familiar with each other.”

“We’re not,” Kiyoomi said. 

Atsumu just gave him an unreadable glance.

Oliver Barnes, a giant of a man and one of their hitters, clapped his hands together and said, “If you two are friends, we’ll be unstoppable on the court. Please be friends.”

An old memory came to mind, unbidden. _Omi-kun, let’s be friends._

Kiyoomi sighed. Could he really do this again? Did he even have a choice?

\--

The next morning, he knocked on Atsumu’s door.

He heard a thump that sounded suspiciously like a body hitting the floor, followed by some shuffling. A moment later, the door opened to show a dishevelled Atsumu.

“I don’t care how hungover you are. Let’s practice.”

Atsumu stared at him with bloodshot eyes. When Kiyoomi didn’t budge, he groaned and thunked his forehead on the door. “Give me 15 minutes.”

He waited in the living room. Sure enough, within 15 minutes, Atsumu strolled in looking more awake. He was freshly showered, his hair still a bit damp. For a second, he was accosted by unwanted memories, of cool lips that tasted like toothpaste, and two bodies squeezing into a bathtub together.

“Good morning, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu said, still somewhat groggily.

Kiyoomi didn’t answer, just stood up and started walking outside. They made the trek to the gym in silence.

Atsumu started waking up when he started stretching and doing warm ups. Kiyoomi dragged out a basket of volleyballs from the storage room.

“Show me what you learned in America, then,” he said.

Atsumu grinned at him.

From what he’s seen during the past two weeks of practice, Atsumu still had a mean serve. Now that he’s actually paying close attention to Atsumu instead of trying his best not to look at him, he corrected himself — his serves were even deadlier than ever.

“Whatcha think?” Atsumu asked eagerly.

“It was good,” Kiyoomi admitted. “I might even have a hard time getting that.”

“Wait til you see the new one I’ve been practicing.”

“New one?”

“Yeah! I haven’t even shown the others. But I’ll show you! You gotta stand in the other court so you can see it properly.”

Skeptically, Kiyoomi obeyed. He stood near the edge of the opposite court, waiting for what Atsumu had in store. 

Atsumu aimed the ball right at him. It seemed to be a jumper and Kiyoomi’s body positioned itself automatically. But just when he thought he got it, the ball swerved, just barely missing Kiyoomi’s outstretched forearms.

“What the —?”

Atsumu laughed, delighted. “Now I know it’s good, if even you can’t get it!”

“What was that?” he asked when he returned to the other side of the court.

“It’s this hybrid I’m working on. It’s still pretty inconsistent. It’s a pain trying to nail it.”

Atsumu was simply full of surprises, wasn’t he?

They ended up just lightly bumping a ball between them back and forth. Child’s play. But it let them talk without pissing each other off.

“How was America, really?” he finally asked.

Atsumu passed him the ball effortlessly. “Lonely. I missed home, I missed Samu and — and everyone else. I missed the _food_. I was extremely sad the first few months.”

Sakusa hummed. 

“How —” Atsumu paused to hit the ball again. “How was college? I don’t even know the course you decided on.”

“I took up psychology.”

Atsumu caught the ball in his hands when it reached him again. “No way.”

Kiyoomi smiled a little. “Yes way. I wanted to learn more about my broken brain.”

“How many times do I have to tell you it’s not broken?”

He smiled a little wider. “I get that now.”

Atsumu gazed at him for a moment. “I’m glad.” He tossed the ball and hit it towards Sakusa again.

There were many things he wanted to ask. Things like, _did you miss me while you were halfway across the world? Did you ever think about me in the past four years? Why didn’t you tell me you were going to America? Why did you come back to the Black Jackals knowing I was here?_

Instead, he said, “Try tossing this again.” He bumped the ball towards Atsumu in a high arc.

Atsumu moved automatically, fingers reaching up to send the ball back to Kiyoomi.

It was perfect. Kiyoomi didn’t think, just jumped. The sound of the ball hitting the ground hard gave him that familiar rush of satisfaction for a job well done.

He and Atsumu grinned at each other.

“There we go,” he said, pleased.

“Again,” Atsumu demanded.

They tried their best to practice their attacks with just the two of them there. It was a bit of a struggle.

But then Foster strolled in with Meian, saying, “Your teammates didn’t know where you went so I was hoping you were here. Let’s see it then.”

Meian helped them by tossing the ball to Atsumu so he could set. He did, and Kiyoomi jumped just in time. The ball hit the opposite court, over and over again.

There were still a bit of inconsistencies, but they fine-tuned it the longer they went.

“Let’s try it faster,” Atsumu said excitedly. He was always an aggressive player.

“Faster,” he mused. “Might take some work.” He was no Hinata.

By the time their rowdy teammates spilled into the gym, they were getting the hang of it.

“Let’s play!” Bokuto said, jogging over. “Hey, you two got it!”

Kiyoomi smiled. He can do this. Everything was going to be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting the last two chapters in one go in a few days. They are long af. We're near the end!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for descriptions of panic attacks

His confidence didn’t hold up for long. He was distressed to realize one day that his inner peace had been ruffled. Atsumu was suddenly _there_ again, bouncing around his head like a pinball, lighting up memories he’d long quieted.

He had never wanted to forget Atsumu — for all the grief he gave him, he’d given Kiyoomi the best days of his life. But Kiyoomi had laid the feelings to rest long ago. _Here lies Sakusa Kiyoomi’s heart, which only ever beat for one person, and died when that person left._ He had reached the point where he could gaze at the tombstone with fondness.

Did he overestimate his level of recovery?

Since they started being “friends” again, Kiyoomi was thrown into a very familiar circle of hell. The one where Atsumu was always around, calling him Omi-Omi, teasing him about his fussiness, as irreverent as ever.

And to his horror, his hands would itch with the familiar urge to grab him and kiss him to shut him up.

One time he came across Atsumu video chatting with Osamu in the kitchen. “Omi-Omi! Look Samu, Omi-kun is here.”

Sighing, Kiyoomi made his way over slowly and peeked at the phone. Osamu had dark hair now. He stared at Kiyoomi impassively. If Atsumu was impossible to understand, then his twin was impossible to read. Kiyoomi stared blankly back.

After a few moments of that silent battle, Kiyoomi looked away and left Atsumu to chatter away endlessly at his brother.

That night, he finally called Komori after having dodged his texts for weeks. The first message was sent the moment it was announced that Atsumu was back in the Jackals.

“Atsumu is here,” he said as a greeting.

“I heard. I’ve been wondering,” Komori admitted. “How are you doing? You’ve been avoiding my messages.”

As crisply as he could, he told him about the rough first couple weeks, about practicing together and catching up, about how they were friends now.

“Friends,” Komori repeated doubtfully.

“Yes. It’s been a month of us being in the same team and there has been no incidents. Of any kind.”

“And are you fine with being...friends?”

“Of course. It’s been four years. It was just some teenage whatever, I’ve moved on. It wasn’t like I spent all this time pining after him every day, you know. Feelings fade.”

The urges and pang of brief emotions he'd been getting recently were normal for any person in recovery. That was what he told himself. Nevermind that it’s been four years.

“Yeah, I know but...I also know you function _weird_ around him. God, I’m getting war flashbacks.”

Kiyoomi huffed. “I was just a kid with raging hormones back then, I didn’t know any better. I do now. I can do friends. We were friends before.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you were never just friends.” Komori paused. “But I suppose I’m glad you two are being adults about this, regardless of whatever...thing...that was between you before.”

“Yes, you should be proud. I’m not stupid anymore.”

“Sure. But you’re not happy either.”

Kiyoomi stopped. Closed his eyes. “What are you saying.”

“Nothing. I don’t know. Ignore me.”

“Komori. Just speak plainly.”

“Look, I know...I know I discouraged your _thing_ with him before. I just thought it was unhealthy, you always looked so...I don’t know. _Deranged?_ And the way you cried when you didn’t go to meet him, just. I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it and — Sakusa what if…”

“What?”

“What if you could have been good together if both of you really tried?”

“He didn’t feel the same way.”

“But how do you know that? You never asked!”

“He left! He just disappeared one day! That was clear as anything. And he just kept popping up whenever he felt like it, only to leave. _Again_. He went to fucking America without telling me, Komori!”

There was a sigh on the other end. “Do you hear yourself? You’re out of sorts again. You’re not over anything, so maybe it’s time to do something about that. You need closure, Sakusa.”

Closure. What a damning word.

“There is no need to _close_ anything. It’s been dead a long time ago. It never even _lived_.”

“Why did you sign up for the Black Jackals, then? The truth, this time. I know you got a lot of other offers, you didn’t even need to leave Tokyo at all.”

“I told you I got sick of Tokyo,” he answered stiffly.

“Sure. Or you were sick of something else.” Komori made a frustrated sound. “Whatever, call me again when you’re done being stupid.”

After Komori hung up on him, he thought about it.

Did he want closure? Did he need it? It’s been so long. It’s been four years.

Was he in love with Atsumu again? Or did he just never stop?

The thought saddened him. All this progress but he could never cleanse himself of Miya Atsumu.

Why did he ever leave Tokyo?

\--

Kiyoomi decided to put it all in the backburner...for months.

He kept his distance from Atsumu, and for once, Atsumu respected his unspoken wish. Perhaps he’d matured, or perhaps he didn’t care one way or another. Why would he anyway? Whatever friendship they had died when Atsumu stepped into that train to Hyogo and decided to leave Kiyoomi behind in every way. The Osaka incident was simply the final nail in the coffin. At least for now, they were civil, and they’ve synced up in court — that was enough.

He did appreciate the way Atsumu’s presence bridged the distance between Kiyoomi and the rest of the team. He knew he always came across as cold, and he never learned to reverse that. He never learned to make friends of his own.

But Atsumu’s familiarity with Kiyoomi apparently made him seem more approachable, and now they all called him variations of “Omi.”

Only one person ever dared to call him Omi-Omi, though. The team always looked mystified whenever the nickname slipped from Atsumu’s lips, as if they couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t dead yet.

The two of them gave their teammates no reason to speculate on their relationship, though. They explained they’ve met as early as the 2012 All-Japan Youth Intensive Training Camp, and that was that.

Kiyoomi put his focus on volleyball — despite everything, he really was content. He felt lucky to have reached this far, to be in the same team with amazing players. He wasn’t about to risk it for anything.

It was off-season, but they had a lot of work to do. Sometimes they had practice games, sometimes charity games, and sometimes they had special training.

They were on the bus headed back to Osaka from one of these special trainings when it all came to a head.

It started like this: Kiyoomi woke up that September morning and immediately felt unsettled. _The bees are buzzing_ , he thought.

And when he was unable to find his pills in his overnight bag, it hit him — he must have forgotten to pack them. Their special training this time had taken them to Miyagi for an overnight session, but the long travel time meant the whole trip took three days.

He’d been unmedicated the past three days.

Normally this wouldn’t be an issue. He’s missed doses before. He’d gone a week without meds. He’d sometimes feet low-key anxious in those times, but that was it. However, he’d been in a better headspace back then. He hadn’t been hours away from his home, stuck in an unfamiliar place for days. He hadn’t been wrung out by the rough travel, he hadn’t needed to jerk around and sway in a slightly too-cold bus filled with noisy teammates. His stress levels were pretty high, and that always spelled out bad news. Stress made his symptoms worse.

Holy hell. He hadn’t even packed a single mask. The only thing vaguely giving him the illusion of safety was his travel-sized alcohol spray. He had been distracted lately.

He tried to do his breathing exercises and his meditation, but that would only hold up so far in an 11-hour bus ride. He couldn’t imagine surviving the ride this way, but he didn’t know what to do. Not for the first time, he wondered why he had to be born like this.

Normal people had it so easy.

And of course, it just had to get worse. They were still navigating the winding roads of the mountainous Miyagi when the bus broke down.

“Oh no,” Hinata said.

“Oh no indeed,” Foster said, getting to his feet. “Everyone stay here.” He and the driver got out to check the damage.

Kiyoomi started his breathing exercises again, eyes tightly shut, fists clenched. He tried to reassure himself, which usually helped.

_This is the same seat you sat on during the ride here. No one else sat there. No one else touched it. Don’t think about being stuck in an enclosed space with a bunch of other men. They’re your teammates. They’re probably fine. Surely, they showered. You all came from training, you all just showered. Don’t think about the heater on the bus moving air around all these people. No one probably has the flu. It’s a big, comfy bus. Lots of space._

It wasn’t working. His hands itched to spray alcohol, and he hated it, because he was supposed to be so much better at managing his compulsions. It’s been years. He felt like a failure.

And then Bokuto said, “Hey, Omi-kun, are you alright…?

Atsumu suddenly warned, “No, don’t touch him —”

But Bokuto’s big ( _sweaty, heavy,_ his mind screamed) hand already landed on top of his clenched fist.

And he got sent into a full blown panic attack.

Time always passed strangely during these episodes. Each second felt like an eternity where he was just frozen, unable to breathe, unable to move. The edges of his vision were blurring, tunneling. Tears started spilling from his eyes, unbidden. He tried to catch his breath but it was impossible.

He was dying.

Vaguely, he recognized some yelling and shouting and screaming, but they all sounded far away. Like he had his head underwater and all he could hear was his thundering heartbeat.

And then a familiar voice yelled, “Can you all shut up, you’re making it worse! No one move!”

Then in a more gentle, soothing voice, Atsumu said, “Hey, Omi-Omi. What do you need?”

He couldn’t respond.

“Omi-Omi, I’m right here. Listen to my voice, okay? You’re in the bus with us. It’s a very clean bus. You’re holding an alcohol bottle. Can you feel it?”

It took a while, but his fingers twitched around the bottle, and he recognized the shape of it. _I’m holding an alcohol bottle. My other hand is on my lap_. He tried to relax both hands.

 _I’m in the bus with Atsumu. With my friends_. He wiggled his toes.

“I need you to breathe, Omi-Omi.”

He did. When he blinked, more tears fell from his eyes. He was starting to ground himself, starting to snap himself out of it.

“What do you need?” Atsumu asked again.

He didn’t answer. Hands shaking, he spritzed alcohol on his hands, feeling both sick and relieved at giving in to his compulsion. Irrationality had overtaken his brain yet again. He _needed_ it.

And then, like clockwork, the familiar feeling of dread came, of the horror of seeing cracked hands and blood seeping from cuts. He started crying. 

“Omi, what’s _wrong_?” Atsumu sounded upset now.

“Atsumu,” he sobbed. “My hands. They’ll be broken.”

“Your hands are fine,” Atsumu soothed.

“They feel. Dry.”

“Yo, someone toss me my bag!”

Tears started dripping from his eyes faster. “My hands will crack and bleed again and they'll take me to the hospital. Again. They’ll lock me up this time.”

This was his very own personal curse. His compulsions make him want to clean his hands. His trauma and illness anxiety make him terrified whenever he does. Will he never find peace?

“No one is going to be locked up anywhere,” Atsumu said firmly. There was some shuffling and he felt Atsumu sit down on the seat beside his. “I’m going to disinfect my hands and put some lotion on yours okay?”

That...sounded good. He jerked his head into a nod.

The bottle slipped from his hand and Atsumu did as he promised. Familiar fingers started massaging his hands, the cream soothing Kiyoomi’s irrational fears. His skin wasn't cracking, it wasn’t bleeding. They were perfectly fine. He finally let himself relax.

When Atsumu announced he was done, Kiyoomi took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. They felt and looked clean and well-moisturized. The bees retreated, and he slumped back into his seat, eyes closed. His mind started to clear.

 _Worst is over_ , he told himself. _You lost today’s battle, but that doesn’t mean you lose the war. This is not a lapse. This is not a relapse._

But the defeat was starting to get to him. Frustration welled up in him — he’d been doing so well. He hadn’t had a panic attack in months and months.

“I’m so sorry, Omi-kun,” he heard Bokuto say.

“It’s fine,” he bit out. “Just shut up for a minute.” He silently took stock of himself. He felt tired, but at the same time still keyed up, his emotions tumbling around, scattered. He had some excess jitters he didn’t know what to do with. He itched to spike a volleyball, but also wanted to sleep.

“Do you need your pills? Where are they?” Atsumu asked.

Now was not the time to be nagged. He gritted his teeth. “Don’t have them.”

“What do you mean, you don’t have them?”

“I mean I _forgot_ them, alright?”

“That’s not like you.”

“Oh, and you'd know, wouldn't you.” He sat upright again, glaring furiously at Atsumu. “Can you stop treating me like I’m a fucking psycho just because I’m unmedicated?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. You know I would never mean it like that!”

Meian’s voice said, “Guys —”

“And how would I know that, huh? Maybe you missed the memo, Tsumu, but I don’t know you anymore. Maybe I never did.”

“Don’t you fucking say that to me,” Atsumu said furiously, glaring back at him. “You knew me better than anyone, don’t even fucking try to —”

“Then why was I the last to know that you were moving to _America_!”

There was a ringing silence as Atsumu stared at him, stunned.

Recognizing the fact he’d let himself get carried away by his emotions again, he stood up suddenly and wormed his way out of his seat. “Move,” he snapped at the bodies blocking his path. They all scattered, jumping into the nearest seats.

He’d always been overly vulnerable and emotional after an episode. He always hated that. Shame was starting to sink in.

As he made his way to the bus doors, Atsumu called out to him, “I thought you didn’t care. You made it pretty clear when you fucking _stood me up in the park_!”

Kiyoomi slammed his palm against the button that will open the doors and stomped his way out of the bus, hearing Atsumu snap, “Stay here, don’t follow us, don’t listen to us, no one leave the bus.”

The cool fresh air smacked into his face, reminding him that he still had tears on his cheeks. He wiped them angrily. He started walking away from the bus, sticking to the side of the wide, empty road, with no direction in mind. He had no idea where they were. He just needed to get away for a while, to lick his wounds, and try to rebuild his dignity. He felt vulnerable, exposed. Where did his walls go?

There was the sound of the bus doors closing and footsteps thundering behind him. He didn’t stop and he didn’t look back.

“I can’t _believe_ you’re doing this now,” Atsumu’s angry voice followed him. “I can’t believe you just made a scene right now! In front of the team? Really, Omi?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you suddenly developed _shame_.”

“This is different! This is important to me! God. This was my home before you got here and now you’re ruining it. Why did you have to come _here_? Why did you have to come to _my team_?”

He finally whirled around to shout, “Because you said to meet you in Osaka!” There was a shocked silence and Kiyoomi let out a sob and, to his shame, started crying again. In a quieter voice, he said, “You said to meet you in Osaka. I’m four years too late, but damn it, I’m here.”

“ _What?_ Wait — What? What are you saying?”

He glared at Atsumu with tears in his eyes. Surely after all this time, he knew.

In a desperate voice, Atsumu said, “Omi, please, I need to understand what you’re saying.”

“I’m saying I _regret_ it, okay?” he finally admitted angrily, to Atsumu and to himself. “I’m saying I let it go too easily. You were slowly killing me but I fucking loved you and it broke my fucking heart not to go to you. But you were so damn bad for me, Atsumu. For once, I chose myself, but it ended up just hurting me. And it was all useless because I still want you just as much as I did back then. How is that fair? I _hate_ you.”

Atsumu seemed to have lost the ability to speak. But all the things Kiyoomi had buried were suddenly clawing their way out six feet from the ground.

“I am... _so_ sick of you. How is it that I can get treatment for my goddamn disorders, but I can’t cure myself of you? It was only ever you that really made me feel like a fucking _nutcase_. You kept telling me my brain wasn’t broken, but damn it, it _is_ , because that’s the only explanation as to why I can’t get you out of it. And I thought I was fine, but you still make me feel so — demented! Is there no pill for this madness? _Fuck_ you, Atsumu. Why did I ever have to meet you?”

Atsumu was staring at him in what looked like horror. “I don’t understand. You said. You said you just wanted to be friends.”

“When did I fucking say that?”

Atsumu scoffed, gesturing wildly with a hand. “When you fucking said you talked to your therapist about me and he said I was a good friend — I asked! I asked if that was what you wanted, and you _said yes_! You said I was a good friend and thanked me, as if we didn’t just spend two weeks _fucking_ each other.”

Kiyoomi pressed a palm on his wet eyes. “You _were_ a good friend — you were my first friend!” He couldn’t believe this. He wanted to strangle Atsumu. “I was grateful for you! That didn’t mean I didn’t want...everything else.” He exhaled, dropping his hand, losing all fight in him. He started to shiver, feeling like he’d just been put through the wringer.

“You were always…” Atsumu sounded unsure now. “You were always harping about — about it being ‘teenage stuff.’ Messing around, trying things out. Like an experiment. I thought…”

“What? That I’d let just anyone do all that shit to me? You think I’d just welcome anyone into my space, into my home? I kept letting you in, damn it! And in my weakest moments, I was the one who kept going back to you! You had me feeling so damn stupid.”

“You know, you have this the other way around,” Atsumu said, looking angry now. “I was the one who kept going back to you. I tried so fucking hard not to!”

“Can you for once make some fucking sense?”

“You — _you_ don’t make sense! You’re hot, you’re cold, you’re so damn hard to read — I could never tell if you enjoyed my company, or you just had no other choice — sometimes I thought maybe you felt something, but it never made sense that you’d want me. How the hell was I supposed to fucking know you loved me back?”

“Oh now you’re telling me you loved me too.”

“ _Of course fucking I loved you!_ You think I’d go all the way to Tokyo from fucking Hyogo for what — a random fling? My aunt never gave a shit whether we were there or not, alright? I was the one who kept volunteering to visit! And I didn’t come from money, you know, I saved up for those tickets! God! And the one time — the one time I asked you to come to me, you kept me waiting.” Atsumu was crying now. “I _waited_ for you, Omi-Omi. Until long after the sunset. And you just...didn’t show up. Didn’t even tell me so I wouldn’t look like an idiot crying on a fucking park bench.”

Kiyoomi was helpless to do anything but stare at Atsumu in confusion and quiet agony. He gave up on stemming his tears and they leaked from his eyes endlessly. He did not understand; all he felt was hurt. 

“You were just so...out of my reach,” Atsumu said miserably. “You still are, damn it. Don’t know what exactly I was hoping for, coming back here. Guess I thought maybe now that we’re older it would be easier to close the distance between us. But you’re still so far away, it’s not even fucking funny anymore. How do you do it? How do you stay so cold?”

Feeling lost, Kiyoomi said, “But you did have me. And you left me. Every single time. That first spring, that winter — I waited and waited for you to call me back but you just fucked off to nowhere. Like it meant nothing to you.”

“How could you even say that to me? Those moments with you meant everything to me.” Atsumu ran a hand across his face. “I’m sorry I kept disappearing like that. Okay? I’m sorry. I just felt so — so stupid, so hurt, I didn’t have it in myself to — act like I was fine with just being _friends_ or whatever with the person I fell in love with. I tried my best to be _just_ what you wanted, but it was so bad for me. I tried _so hard_ to quit you. But I couldn’t — I couldn’t get you out of my system, I just kept going back to you, like an idiot. And I felt so stupid and desperate each time, like I was a rat trying to steal scraps. I would have done fucking _anything_ — ” He let out an aborted sound of frustration. “How could you _not know_? I literally crossed the country just to see your goddamn _face_. And it would have been enough just to get a glimpse of it, had you decided not to let me in. Isn’t that just pathetic of me?”

Heart hurting for an entirely different reason now, Kiyoomi studied Atsumu’s face. Gone were the cocky smiles, the smugly raised eyebrow, the unreadable glances. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression hurt and self-deprecating, and he was looking at Kiyoomi like he’d started feeling the tiniest bit of hope even though he didn’t want to.

Groaning, Kiyoomi dropped to a crouch on the side of the road, burying his face in his hands. Could they really have been this stupid? They’d done so much damage to each other, and for what? Some young, dumb love?

“Omi?” Atsumu’s voice was closer. He felt him crouch down next to him.

He breathed for a moment, trying to sort out his thoughts, trying to figure out what he wanted most to know in this moment.

“Did you really go all the way to Tokyo for me?” he finally asked, voice muffled in his hands. “All those times?” He always felt like he was just a convenience.

“I did. Of course I did.”

Kiyoomi sniffled and wiped his tears away. “You’re so stupid.”

“You are, too. I can’t believe you didn’t know, I was so obvious.”

Kiyoomi whipped his head around to glare at him. “What part of that was obvious? All the times you stopped calling? All the times you’d randomly show up, and leave without looking back? Do you know, you conditioned me never to expect you, but I conditioned myself to keep waiting for you anyway? Do you have any idea how much you’ve ruined me?”

“I didn’t —” Atsumu looked away in guilt. “I didn’t mean to _do that_. I’m _sorry,_ I was just trying to preserve myself! Not that it fucking worked. Do _you_ know that Samu deleted your number from my phone, but I memorized it anyway? And I had to hide in tight, enclosed spaces so he wouldn’t catch me calling you? I used to hide in the closet for our calls, but that hurt like a goddamn bitch, okay? And I used to go around town, doing odd jobs for people to earn some extra cash so I can live in fucking Tokyo for two weeks that winter. I once worked in a _pigsty_ , holy shit. A pigsty! You made me do the most godawful things. Fuck.”

Kiyoomi paused. “A pigsty?”

“I can still remember the _smell_ , Omi-Omi. Sometimes I’d call you from there and I stayed as far away from the filthy animals as possible but I was so worried you’d hear them anyway and realize I was — you know. Way below your league. I don’t know what I was doing, going around tripping over a rich Tokyo boy of all people.”

He thought of Atsumu balancing school and volleyball and random jobs, and a lump started building in his throat. “When I’d text you. And you’d say you were busy with schoolwork…”

“I lied, I was busy weeding the garden of the old lady at the edge of town. Or I’d do her groceries and run errands for her. Sometimes I’d help out around the shop of the corner store Samu and I used to frequent.”

A thought struck him. “What about Osamu? Did he have to work, too?’’

Atsumu laughed tiredly. “Omi. He didn’t go to Tokyo, not the second or third time around. Our parents funded the first trip, but after...Samu told them I was doing it for a boy, so they obviously didn’t like that, and left me to my own devices. He was so mad at me. And at you, too. Kept telling me I was being stupid, running off to Tokyo for...I dunno. Nothing that would ever come to fruition.” He sounded defeated. “I mean, I really did try. To stay away from you, to stop talking to you. But I just...I _missed_ you. All the damn time.”

Kiyoomi shifted, dropping to his knees so he could shuffle over to Atsumu and grip him by the face. “You’re so _stupid_.” He had no idea. All this time, he had _no idea._

“Not exactly the three words I was hoping to hear…”

Overcome, Kiyoomi shut him up by finally crashing his lips against him in a long-overdue kiss. It was wet and salty but all he could think was, _finally_.

It felt like coming home after a long, exhausting day.

Atsumu kissed him back urgently, like he thought he wasn’t going to have another chance to do it again. But they were going to do it again and again if Kiyoomi had anything to do about it. If Atsumu felt the same way, then he was going to _have_ this, damn it. He wanted his heart back. He was resuscitating it.

He pulled away. “I love you, you stupid Atsumu.” It was a relief to finally say it. The words have been brewing in him for six years.

The object of his reluctant affection just stared at him with wide eyes and collapsed backwards, letting himself fall on his ass on the dirty ground. “I can die now. I can just die right here.” He placed a hand against his chest, looking dazed.

Kiyoomi clutched at Atsumu’s jacket and started shaking him. “Say it back,” he demanded.

“I _love_ you, jeez. How many times do I have to shout it out here for the world to hear?”

Pleased and satisfied, Kiyoomi smiled. “Every day until I could forgive you for all the misery you caused me for the past six years.”

“And what about all the misery _you_ caused _me_ for the past six years?” Atsumu challenged.

He considered this. “I’ll let you fuck me again?”

“Omi!” Atsumu spluttered. “That’s it, I’m really gonna to die, just let me die out here…”

Snickering, Kiyoomi leaned in to kiss him again, with all the happiness and enthusiasm he was suddenly feeling. He felt like he was on top of the world, all his worries and hurts insignificant in the distance. Nothing else mattered, not in this moment. Without meaning to, he ended up straddling Atsumu’s thighs while they gripped each other, lips locked in a movement so heart-wrenchingly familiar for both of them. This was something they’d gotten really good at. Kiyoomi was starting to get worked up.

Then the sound of a bus door opening broke their tiny bubble and Inunaki’s voice yelled, “Can you two not fuck on the side of the road! Jesus Christ!”

They separated and looked over on the bus. Foster was standing beside it looking at them contemplatively, and Kiyoomi realized he and the driver had been out there the whole time. The driver was avoiding looking at them, looking scandalized and bothered.

Inunaki was glaring at them from the now open bus door while the rest of the team each claimed a window they could watch them through.

What a bunch of nosy brats.

In a horrified voice, Atsumu said, “I am so sorry, Coach, we were just —”

Foster waved a hand. “It’s fine, it looked like you had a lot of, er — issues and feelings you had to work through. I have to say I did not see that coming.”

Atsumu whispered, “Why am I not dead yet.”

Kiyoomi picked himself out from the ground, not even bothered — for now — of where he’d been rolling around on. He dragged Atsumu up. “Is the bus fixed?”

Foster sighed, “No, it looks like we’re staying in Miyagi another night. We’ll check in at an inn and leave first thing tomorrow. It should be repaired by then.”

That was the best option Kiyoomi could think of. The thought of a shower further lifted his mood. “Okay.”

“Get inside while we look for transportation back to the main town.”

They trooped back in and studiously avoided their teammates' stares.

He dragged Atsumu to sit beside him, not ready to let go yet. The moment they were settled, he cuddled against his side, wrapping an arm around his waist and tucking his head in his neck. He felt like if he let go, he’d wake up to find it was all just a dream.

Could he really have this?

“God, I missed this,” Atsumu sighed.

“Me too. Stupid Atsumu.”

He got a tired chuckle in return. A large hand cupped his cheek and Kiyoomi perched his chin on Atsumu’s shoulder. Atsumu leaned in close, lips brushing over a spot beside his nose.

“Tell me you love me again, Omi-Omi,” he murmured.

Kiyoomi flushed, stomach tumbling. Now that the adrenaline has passed, he suddenly felt a lot flustered. But he muttered, almost angrily, “I love you.”

“Again.”

He smacked the blonde idiot on the stomach hard, and Atsumu cackled. “Guess I have to earn that, huh?” He kissed Kiyoomi’s cheek. “Love you, psycho.”

They relaxed against each other and rested together. Finally in peace.

But then —

“So,” Hinata chirped. He was watching from the seat in front of them. Bokuto popped up from beside him.

“What’s the deal then?” Inunaki asked, collapsing on the seat across from Atsumu.

“We’re not answering any questions,” Kiyoomi said flatly. “Leave us alone.”

“But we gotta know!” Bokuto wailed. “Please!”

“They’ll just keep bugging you until you spill it,” Inunaki said.

Kiyoomi groaned and hid his face against Atsumu’s shoulder. A silent, _you deal with this._

“Long story short, we had a thing way back — we were what, 17?” Atsumu said.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

“We were young and stupid. But now we’re really together. Er, I hope. The end.”

“What’s a ‘thing’?” Hinata wondered cluelessly. “What’s ‘really together’ mean?”

“Oh you sweet summer child,” Atsumu said. “Nothing, Shouyou-kun. We just liked each other.”

Kiyoomi finally lifted his head. “He used to throw pebbles on my balcony and sneak into my room. We fucked a lot.”

“Omi!” Atsumu yelled. “Shut your mouth! Must you be so blunt!”

“Oh my god,” he heard Meian say in a faint voice.

Barnes was laughing heartily and Adriah was saying, “I knew it, I knew I wasn’t imagining the sexual tension.”

Bokuto was looking between them with a gaping mouth, while Hinata’s eyes were about to bug out from their sockets. “You...”

“You broke the idiots,” Inunaki observed. 

“It was a nice teenage romance,” Kiyoomi decided.

“Seriously?” Atsumu demanded. “Are you still calling it that?”

Kiyoomi kissed his pout away. “What’s wrong with that? You were my first love. Thought you’d want that title.”

Atsumu’s expression morphed into one of awe. “Really?” he breathed out. Then he paused. “And your last, right?”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, but deigned to kiss him again. “And my last,” he repeated. He was going to make it happen.


	10. Chapter 10

Feeling loads better after a long, hot, and thorough bath, Kiyoomi lay down under the covers and called Komori.

“Yo,” his cousin greeted.

“We’re together now. For real.”

“Wait — what? You and Atsumu?”

He rolled his eyes. “Who else?”

“How did that happen?”

“I had a panic attack and we had a screaming match outside on the road.”

Komori paused. “Why can’t you two be normal?”

“Normal is boring.” He’d decided that today.

“Whatever. Okay, give me the deets. Did he always love you but just didn’t tell you and instead fucked off to god knows where?”

“Yeah.”

“As I suspected. You’re both dumb.”

“Yeah.”

“How do you feel?”

That was easy. “Happy.”

“Thank fucking Christ. Finally.”

“Komori — thank you.”

“Er, sure.”

“Not just for being there for me. For —” his throat tightened for a second. “For taking care of me that day. For taking me to the hospital. I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for you. I’m over six years too late, but thank you.”

For a few seconds there was only silence. Then the sound of Komori’s sobs filled the line.

Kiyoomi sighed.

“You have no idea,” hiccup, “how terrified I was that day —”

“Sorry.”

“And then you wouldn’t talk to me for the longest time —”

“Sorry,” he said again, more sincerely this time.

Komori sniffled, then sighed. “It’s fine. I understand it was a rough time for you. You’ve come so far, Sakusa. I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Go away now. Bye.” He hung up on Komori. Then he called out, “It’s open.”

Atsumu strolled in, hair windswept, clutching a bunch of paper bags in one hand. “Hey.” He shut the door behind him and locked it.

“Was it a far walk?”

“Had to borrow a bike from the inn. It’s fine, though.” Atsumu reached the bed and rummaged through the bags. He placed a water bottle and packets of medicine on the side table. Sertraline. Alprazolam. “Take your meds. I’ll take a shower. Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Atsumu disappeared into the bathroom, and Kiyoomi sat up. He downed a couple of pills and washed it down with water, feeling relief at finally having them in his system. He lay down and shut his eyes, trying to get himself to fully relax.

He must have dozed off because he was woken by a hand running through his hair. He opened his eyes to see Atsumu gazing down at him with what looked like adoration.

“Feeling better?” Atsumu asked softly. He was sitting at the edge of the bed beside Kiyoomi.

He nodded, unable to speak.

Atsumu trailed fingers down his cheek. “This okay?”

He nodded again. The bees were blessedly silent. He felt relaxed, unworried, and with Atsumu there, he felt free.

Then Atsumu leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on his forehead, right where his moles sat. “Sleep. You’ve had a long day.”

Kiyoomi grasped his shoulder when he started to pull away. “Atsumu. Did you buy the other stuff.”

Cheeks suddenly flushed, “Yeah, but —”

Kiyoomi started kicking off the blanket, revealing his bare body underneath.

“Oh Jesus,” Atsumu said, pained. “You really want to kill me. I don’t know how to survive this again.”

“Clothes off, then come here.”

Keeping his eyes on Kiyoomi, Atsumu stood and slowly started removing the shirt and sweatpants he must have been planning on sleeping in. They watched each other, tension suddenly thick in the air.

Finally free from his clothes, Atsumu stepped forward, running his eyes over every inch of Kiyoomi’s bare skin. “How could you have gotten so gorgeous in the span of four years? When I first saw you again I thought I was having a stroke.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Atsumu placed a knee over the bed and swung his other leg over Kiyoomi. “You like my new hair? Not piss or mustard colored anymore, is it?”

Kiyoomi laughed suddenly, remembering. “No, not anymore. But I’ll have to say I’m fond of both.”

Atsumu loomed over him as he reached over to the bedside table and rummaged around the paper bags he left there. When he straightened, he was clutching a pack of lube and a condom.

“You sure about this?”

“I’ve been waiting for four years, Atsumu. I’m _sure_.”

Atsumu looked like he wanted to cry. He finally leaned over Kiyoomi, bracing his forearms on either side of his head, and pressed the length of his body against his. They both gasped.

“Did you really want me all this time, Omi?” Atsumu whispered.

“Yes,” he choked out. He wrapped his legs around Atsumu’s waist and let out a moan. “I couldn’t imagine being with anyone else like this.”

Atsumu bowed his head and it took a moment for Kiyoomi to register the feeling of teardrops falling on his neck.

“Atsumu,” he sighed, fondly and a bit exasperatedly.

“I love you,” Atsumu sobbed. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

“Prove it.”

He did.

\--

Kiyoomi couldn’t stop kissing Atsumu, shamelessly refusing to let him sleep. They were freshly showered (again) and were intertwined under the sheets. They were new ones they’d sheepishly had to ask for in the reception.

“Omi,” Atsumu groaned. “I’m exhausted. Let me sleep.”

“No.” He pressed his mouth against his. “You owe me years worth of kisses and affection.” So he was touch-starved, sue him. He’d lost all sense of shame. Not now that he knew Atsumu would give him anything and everything.

Sure enough, Atsumu turned and wrapped his arms tight around him. “Come here. You’ve always been such a spoiled brat.” He started raining kisses on Kiyoomi’s face.

Kiyoomi smiled, pleased.

Atsumu sighed against the top of his head. He muttered,“I’m going to cry if I wake up and find this is all a dream. It’s even more realistic than the rest.”

There was suddenly a lump in Kiyoomi’s throat. “Were there many?”

“So many. Most of them weren’t even wet dreams, which made it worse.”

Kiyoomi hugged Atsumu. “We wasted so much time.”

Atsumu hummed. “You know, I thought that too at first, but then — knowing us, the way we were back then, we would have totally crashed and burned at 17. Right? This, here...it feels like the perfect time. Don’t you think?”

He considered this. Thought of the way he was still recovering from a mental breakdown and navigating his mind at 17. Thought of the way he still lived under his parents’ thumb, suffocated and stressed and angry.

He thought of the way he was now — able to live a relatively normal life despite everything. He’d lived alone his entire college life, and he was still whole. He achieved a lot with his own efforts, the best of which was his intact mental state.

He thought of the way Atsumu was now, more self-assured instead of just plain cocky. He was more open to others — he was kind to Hinata, indulgent to Bokuto, his old insincere smiles and fake cheer nowhere to be found. He thought of the way he looked proud at being able to provide for his parents this time around, how he checked up on Osamu regularly _“because I’m the older twin, it’s my responsibility, so eat your veggies Samu.”_

They both grew up well, even without each other. And now they can grow older together.

Kiyoomi nodded slowly. “You know what, I think you’re actually right. Maybe it was the right love but the wrong time, back then. Now it’s perfect.”

“I always planned on making my way back to you,” Atsumu whispered to him. “Didn’t care how many train rides it took. I’m sorry I left for America, but I’m here now, okay?”

Lips trembling, Kiyoomi nodded. “I love you. Don’t leave me again.”

“Never again.”

And Kiyoomi believed him.

\--

During the 11-hour ride back home, they snuggled together at the back of the bus, and Kiyoomi made Atsumu tell him all about the past four years, about Osaka and about America. He demanded every tiny detail, to Atsumu’s distress because _“I don’t have that sharp a memory, Omi.”_

“I do have some stuff for you stashed in my room though,” Atsumu said.

“You do?”

“Yeah. Just some stuff I bought in America that reminded me of you. I was able to travel around a bit there.”

He was suddenly very eager to get home.

Atsumu also asked Kiyoomi to tell him about university, about living alone, free from his parents.

“It was a relief. I didn’t realize how much they affected me until they were gone,” he said. “I mean, we barely spent time together as a family, but I guess I felt oppressed in that old house anyway.”

“I really don’t like them,” Atsumu frowned.

Smirking, Kiyoomi said, “Maybe one day I’ll tell my mom what we were up to back then. She’ll definitely faint. It can be our revenge.”

Alarmed, Atsumu said. “Don’t do that, you might send her to an early grave. And I’ll have to meet both of them eventually, right? That’s the proper thing to do, right?”

Kiyoomi considered this. “I am so sick of customs and what’s proper. Let’s visit overnight and sneak out my balcony at midnight again. Can we fuck in the garden? We need a blanket.”

Atsumu gaped at him. “Who are you and what have you done to Kiyoomi?”

Inunaki said, “Did I really accidentally hear what I just heard? I paused my music for one second, damn.” He stood up and moved further to the front.

They looked at each other and lost it. They laughed until there were tears in their eyes and it was like they were 17 again, in that fire exit, in that park, by that vending machine — it didn’t matter where they were, they were simply happy in each other’s company.

\--

Boyfriend. That’s what he was now, wasn’t it? No longer the strange _thing_ he was before, which drove his busy mind in circles. In the course of six years, he’d become Atsumu’s rival, his friend, a fling, a memory, a teammate.

And now he was his boyfriend.

He liked it.

And he thought he had an idea what Atsumu would be like as _his_ boyfriend, but he turned out to be wrong. 17-year-old Atsumu was immortalized in his memories as sinfully cool, an intoxicating whirlwind that was never up to anything good. That he was a jerk seemed to fit the bill — he was a hard pill to swallow for a reason. He was an illicit but thrilling adventure.

He watched his Atsumu now and tried to make the many versions of him fit in his mind. _This_ Atsumu was sprawled on his back in Kiyoomi’s bed. His hair was a mess, his head was tilted at a strange angle, and he was drooling on his pillow.

This Atsumu clung to Kiyoomi instead of keeping him at arm’s length, not satisfied until he had all limbs attached or intertwined with Kiyoomi’s in some way. This Atsumu bought him flowers because “we missed out on a lot of romantic shit, so I’m making up for that.” This Atsumu stopped hiding the fact that he loved Kiyoomi’s moles, always kissing the two on his forehead as if it was his very own compulsion.

This Atsumu no longer hid behind masks — he let Kiyoomi finally, finally peel back all the layers to see all the insecurities, the desires, the struggles, and the pain that lay underneath.

He thought of the Atsumu who did errands for other people just so he could climb up Kiyoomi’s balcony. He thought of the Atsumu who left him, but waited for him at a park for hours anyway.

They were all the same man. And they were all Kiyoomi’s.

He had never felt luckier.

\--

Postcards. Atsumu had been collecting postcards. For each town, each city, each county in America that he visited, he picked up a postcard and wrote a little something for Kiyoomi. He’d written dates on them, and the ink was inconsistent as if he’d used different pens for different days.

Sometimes it was just silly things like, “Omi, I think my room is haunted,” or “If you think I was wild, you must know people are just French kissing everywhere here. I’m a little traumatized.”

But sometimes it was, “I’m not sure if I’d ever have the strength to give you these, but I want you to know that I thought of you again today. Will my brain ever stop? Is this what your intrusive thoughts feel like?”

And, “Do you know, I used to sometimes watch you sleep. Is that creepy? I dream of your face, still.”

And, “I think my favorite memory of you was when you came to me in that vending machine, and you were breathless and windswept from running. You looked like you’d been laughing and I was sad I didn't get to see it. God, we were so young. What were we thinking? I’m not actually that impulsive but my brain just stops working properly when it comes to you. I don’t regret it though, we had a good time, didn’t we? Did you have fun with me, too?”

And then there was, “Sometimes I remember standing in your garden, looking up at you as you stood in your balcony, waiting and wondering if you were going to let the ladder down so I could reach you. There was always a moment where I think you wouldn’t — you were always so hard to read. And you always looked so ethereal in the moonlight, so lonely but strong, like you belonged in your big, lonely castle. Me? I was just a peasant. I grew up in a small city, you know? It was so small, everyone knew everyone. My family has always lived simply and comfortably, but my world has always been cramped. It was full of life, so I liked it, but can you ever fit in there? Can I ever fit in your world? Your room is double the size of mine and Samu’s and we shared that space. That time we went to Shinjuku because your parents were home for the weekend, I bought you a strawberry bamboo ice cream, and it dented my measly savings. Tokyo is hella big and expensive but you don’t even blink. How much better do I have to be as a person in order to deserve you? To get at your level? You’re used to the finer things in life, but I’m just not enough.”

He put the postcards down by his bedside table, then rolled over to watch his sleeping boyfriend. He’d waited until he was asleep because Atsumu got shy and flustered when he finally gave the postcards and said to read them when he wasn’t around.

Throat tight, he sat up and started shaking him awake. “Tsumu,” he murmured urgently.

Atsumu blinked awake, looking disoriented. “What — Omi, what — why are you crying?” Alarmed, he tried to sit up, but Kiyoomi pushed him down. Brown eyes roved around Kiyoomi’s face before landing on the postcards on the table. “Oh.”

“Tsumu — when we move into an apartment together one day, or, or get a house in the future, I don’t want it to be big. I want it to be cozy. And I don’t want to live in Tokyo, we can stay here in Osaka or — wherever. And I want there to be plants, and maybe there could be a tiny space for a garden and — and you’ll bring home cats and I’ll pretend to hate them, but I’ll secretly love them because c-cats are clean and —”

Warm hands pressed against Kiyoomi’s cheeks, grounding him. Atsumu drew him closer. “Okay, Om-Omi,” he murmured, voice fond. “Yes to all of it.”

Like a puppet whose strings have been cut, Kiyoomi slumped against Atsumu, shifting so he could cuddle against his side. He tucked his face in his neck, sniffling.

“You’re more than enough for me. You were all I ever wanted. You never needed to do anything.”

He felt Atsumu swallow hard.

“And I’m not out of your reach.” He needed Atsumu to know this.

Atsumu squeezed him. Hoarsely, he said, “Not anymore, you’re not.”

If they couldn’t fit in each other’s worlds, then they’ll build one of their own in the middle ground.

\--

Atsumu turned 23 right before the V. League season started in October. It was the first of his birthdays that they actually celebrated together. He remembered Atsumu calling him on this same day, years ago — recently, he learned that it was a moment of weakness. Atsumu justified the call as his birthday present — just one call, he said. But he couldn’t stop calling after. Again and again.

The celebration was a small affair, surrounded by their new family. Meian smirked as he snapped a birthday hat on Atsumu while Foster set down a cake. Atsumu kept Kiyoomi close beside him, his strong arm wrapped around his waist. Kiyoomi was convinced Atsumu could feel the persistent butterflies from where his large hand rested on Kiyoomi’s stomach. Why was he going around acting like a lovesick teenager? He disgusted himself.

Once the candles were blown and removed, Inunaki relished in shoving Atsumu’s face into the cake, while the room burst into laughter. Bokuto was hooting from where he was filming the moment. Osamu was going to have a kick out of this.

“I hope you have another one of those somewhere,” Atsumu said grumpily, after licking his lips free of icing. “That actually tastes good.”

“We do,” Foster said, still chuckling. “Inunaki has been planning that for days.”

“It’s revenge for the gross crap you and Sakusa subject me to daily,” Inunaki huffed.

Kiyoomi wiped icing from Atsumu’s eyes with a tissue. Then he leaned forward and licked bits of cake from Atsumu’s cheek. He gave a silent and triumphant _‘fuck you’_ to the bees. He said, “That does taste good.”

Inunaki let out a muffled furious shriek and stomped away.

Atsumu leaned forward and kissed him so he could taste the cake from his lips.

“Wait, no!” Bokuto yelled. “I was gonna post the video, now I can’t!”

“Just crop it,” Atsumu said, when he pulled away.

“Just post it,” Kiyoomi said. He smirked when Atsumu whipped his head to look at him.

“You know,” Atsumu slowly said in a contemplative voice. “I don’t think I’m the wild one in this relationship.”

“It’s all part of the petty revenge plot, remember?”

“Ah, right.”

“And you corrupted me.”

“Hey!”

Later, when they were alone in Kiyoomi’s room, clean of cake and icing and the sweat they built up between them, Atsumu slid a bare leg in between his.

“So I’m 23. It’s been six years since I’ve known you. We just need to hold up for another year.”

“Why?”

“Because if a friendship lasts seven years, then it will last forever. Isn’t that what they say? Shouldn’t you know this? You were a psychology student!”

“Even if that were true, which it probably isn’t,” he looked at him pointedly. “Friendship isn’t the same as a romantic relationship. And being in love isn’t the same as loving someone.”

“Oh? Do enlighten me, professor.”

Rolling his eyes, Kiyoomi detangled himself from Atsumu and slid out the bed. He scoured through his humble book shelf, and returned holding his copy of The Road Less Travelled by M. Scott Peck.

“This was my favorite book in uni. I found it really enlightening.” He slid back under the covers, and started flipping through the pages, looking for the parts he’d highlighted.

“You’re very sexy right now,” Atsumu said. He was watching him with his head propped up by his hand.

“Shut up.” After flipping past a few more pages, he stopped. “Here. ‘ _Love is as love does. Love is an act of will_ _—_ _namely, both an intention and an action. Will also implies choice. We do not have to love. We choose to love_.’”

He started looking for another passage and stopped when he found it. “‘ _Genuine love is volitional rather than emotional. The person who truly loves does so because of a decision to love. This person has made a commitment to be loving whether or not the loving feeling is present_.’

“And there was one more that really helped me...this one. ‘ _We must be willing to fail and to appreciate the truth that often, life is not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be lived_.’ As a control freak who was repressed for most of his life and suffered from breakdowns and lapses and relapses, that really struck me. Maybe it doesn’t all have to make sense. And it’s okay if I don’t make sense.”

He placed the book on his table and turned to face Atsumu.

There was something unfathomable in Atsumu’s eyes. “If you must know, I chose to love you and all your crazy when I was 17, and I haven’t stopped making that choice over and over again the past six years. And I’ll keep making that same choice six years from now, and six years after that, and six years after that.”

Helpless, Kiyoomi drew closer and kissed this beautiful man, his personal bundle of sunshine he never planned on letting go again. “I’m counting on it. Don’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t.”

And he didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm crying I'm so sad to see this end. This is probably one of the most realistic things I've ever written, because who hasn't gone gaga over a boy/girl? Didn't we all throw away our pride and dignity and common sense just to get willingly screwed over at some point?? Is it just me???? If you can relate I'd LOVEEE to hear your story

**Author's Note:**

> I talked to (er, interviewed) a psychologist, and a person who has OCD (who happens to be gay, it was FATE), and a person who gets panic attacks, so I hope I wrote about Omi's mental health issues well. Obviously I can only do so much, so sorry about any inaccuracies.
> 
> I dedicate this to Mikee (@misashiru13 on Twitter) — all my thanks for answering all my questions about Japan and its culture. I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> You can also bug me in Twitter (@lettersinpetals) or prompt me in curiouscat!
> 
> UPDATE: The extremely talented @sunizilla created [beautiful art](https://twitter.com/sunizilla/status/1310559549053566979?s=21) for this! Check it out and weep.


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